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LUCKY SHOT 


A STORY OF BENT’S FORT 
















He Put The Harmonica To His Lips .—Page 224 


WBm 


LUCKY SHOT 

A Story of Bent’s Fort 
By 

LOUISE PLATT HAUCK 

»» 

ILLUSTRATED BY 

HAROLD CUE 



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> > 


BOSTON 

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. 

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I 3 












?Zi 

Mxgs 


Copyright, 1931, 

By LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. 


All rights reserved 


LUCKY SHOT 



PRINTED IN U.S.A. 


APR 18 193! 

©CU '36656 




To 

My son } 

For whom this story was written 



Grateful acknowledgment is made to Dr. Leroy R. 
Hafen, Historian and Curator of the Colorado 
Historical Museum, for the generous aid given the 
author in the research work connected with this 
book. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

He put the harmonica to his lips 

(Page 224) . . Frontispiece 

FACING PAGE 

“ After ’em, men! ” .... 48 

“ You shore kin shoot, boy ” .90 

There at his feet lay a grinning skull . 240 


9 


LUCKY SHOT 


CHAPTER ONE 

“ It wasn’t the boy’s fault,” Brad’s father 
said crisply. 44 It was merely a piece of bad 
luck that his bullet should have struck the elk 
at the same moment Man Haw Ka’s arrow 
did.” 

44 Very bad luck,” agreed Squire Medbury 
drily. 44 I have the particulars from Man 
Che Ning, the young brave’s father. It 
seems that Man Haw Ka had gone out with 
a party of his friends to exhibit his skill with 
the bow and arrow. They sighted this elk 
—and a big fellow he w&s, too! and the Indian 
drew on him. His arrow struck the animal 
in the neck and it dropped, but not, it seems, 
from Man Haw Ka’s shot. Brad-” 

44 I was hiding in the underbrush,” Brad 
Hundley put in for himself , 44 and wasn’t pay¬ 
ing attention to anything but the elk. My 


li 




12 


LUCKY SHOT 


bullet caught him right between the eyes.” 
Despite the gravity of the situation, he could 
not keep the pride from his voice. It had 
been a splendid shot for a boy of sixteen. 

The little group of four men had gathered 
in the office of lawyer Hundley, Brad’s 
father. They had come to confer upon the 
hostility exhibited toward the town by the 
Sac and Fox Indians living across the river 
from St. Joseph, in what was then known as 
Nebraska Territory but which later was to 
become the State of Kansas. 

“ It’s a most unfortunate time for such a 
thing to occur,” Elder Reeves sighed. 
“ With the Platte Purchase treaty so lately 
signed and the eyes of the Government turned 
on us to see how the experiment will work 
out, it’s particularly unfortunate that we 
should have trouble with the Indians now.” 

“ Oh, come! You can hardly call it trou¬ 
ble,” Mr. Hundley said impatiently. “ The 
young chief and his friends are making a 
nuisance of themselves with their stray ar¬ 
rows-” 



LUCKY SHOT 


13 


“ Stray arrows, man! Do you realize that 
last night my hat was pierced by one of 
them! ” 

The little company hid their several smiles. 
Jonas Moore was not notable for his courage. 

“ Man Haw Ka and his friends don’t mat¬ 
ter a great deal.” It was Squire Medbury 
who spoke again. “ They’ll skirmish about 
the outskirts of the town for a while and then 
forget the whole matter. It’s the older men 
—those who are beginning to realize what 
confinement to the reservations means.” 

“ Confinement! ” Hundley snorted. “ By 
the terms of our agreement, the Indians are 
not to be allowed on this side of the river with¬ 
out a pass from the reservation agent. But 
do they wait for it? No, they swarm across 
exactly as they always did! The very fact 
that Man Che Ning came here this morning 
to complain-” 

“ Not complain, neighbor—to take counsel 
with me and try to find some way out of this 
difficulty.” 

“No trouble about that.” Hundley’s 





14 


LUCKY SHOT 


voice was distinctly snappish. He consid¬ 
ered the whole affair too trivial to have at¬ 
tracted so much attention from the village 
elders. “ I’ll write to the agent and tell him 
to keep his pesky redskins at home—espe¬ 
cially Man Che Ning and his rascally son. 
Brad has as much right to hunt across the 
river as the Indians have, and if he is a bet¬ 
ter shot than one of their precious young 
chiefs, so much the better for Brad, that’s 
all.” 

“ So much the worse for Brad, you mean,” 
Squire Medbury said gravely. 

Brad and his father looked at him with 
sudden attention. The Squire was not given 
to overestimating a danger. The serious¬ 
ness of his manner now was not to be taken 
lightly. 

“ What d’you mean, Squire? Out with it, 
man!” 

“ I mean that Brad’s unlucky shot is likely 
to be made the excuse for an uprising at the 
reservation.” 

“ Squire, surely not! ” 



LUCKY SHOT 


15 


“Just that, Hundley. At first the In¬ 
dians were greatly pleased at the bargain they 
thought they had made in the Platte Pur¬ 
chase, but now they are beginning to under¬ 
stand not only the curtailment of their lib¬ 
erty, but the loss of their lands. They are in 
an ugly mood, and will welcome anything 
that gives them a chance to display their rage 
toward the white man.” 

“ And you think . . . Brad is in dan¬ 
ger? ” 

“ Not only Brad, but your entire family; 
perhaps the whole town. The reservation 
agent is not a particularly forceful man, and 
—he is only one man. If the Sacs chose to 
force their way past the guards and go on 
the warpath, there would be little or nothing 
to prevent them.” 

There was silence in the little room. St. 
Joseph, thanks to the wise and diplomatic 
treatment of the Indians by the town’s 
founder, Joseph Robidoux, had suffered none 
of the attacks common to other villages in 
the territory. But every man in the group 



16 LUCKY SHOT 

knew that to confine the restless Sac and 
Foxes and their more quarrelsome brothers, 
the Iowas, to a limited area was an experi¬ 
ment which might easily result in disaster. 
The town council had kept a wary eye to 
westward for the last two years. 

“What would you advise?” Hundley 
asked, after a period of troubled musing. 

“ Send Brad away for a time.” The an¬ 
swer came so promptly that Hundley saw 
it had been prepared beforehand. “ If I 
can tell Man Che Ning that he has gone, it 
will remove the open cause of the Sacs’ un¬ 
rest. If they break out of bounds after 
that, it will be the Government’s affair to 
punish them. Our skirts will be clear, at 
any rate.” 

The lawyer’s astute mind recognized the 
soundness of this reasoning. Officials at 
Washington had warned all white dwellers 
along the border to do nothing to provoke 
Indian hostility. Just such an incident as 
Brad’s superior marksmanship in the case 
of the disputed elk had more than once proved 


LUCKY SHOT 


17 


a match to set off a ton of Indian dynamite 
with disastrous results. 

Moreover, there was the boy’s own safety 
to be considered. Brad was an adventurous 
lad, strong and tall for his years. For a 
week, perhaps for a month, his father’s or¬ 
ders might keep him within the limits of the 
little village; but sooner or later he would 
rebel, or forget, and then—Hundley shud¬ 
dered as he recalled incidents of redskin bru¬ 
tality which had come within his knowledge. 

He looked at his son. Brad’s gray eyes 
were flashing, his young mouth was set 
sternly. The injustice of the situation had 
aroused all his youthful anger. He had done 
nothing wrong: merely gone hunting, as he 
had gone some score of times before, across 
the river, and by a skilful shot had brought 
down a magnificent elk. He couldn’t help 
it, he told himself fiercely, if that copper- 
colored Man Haw Ka happened to aim at 
the same time and did no better than to prick 
the animal’s shoulder with one of his arrows. 

“ I suppose I’m to be sent away like a 


18 


LUCKY SHOT 


naughty child?” he inquired resentfully. 
“ Packed down to St. Louis for the winter, 
just when the hunting season opens, too. 
Father, I-” 

“ Not St. Louis,” his father interrupted. 
“ I’ve a better plan for you than that.” The 
older man’s face had cleared in the last few 
minutes. “Wait till you hear it, Brad. I’ve 
a notion you’ll consider this affair a stroke 
of good fortune after all.” 

The four men looked at him inquiringly, 
but Hundley did not satisfy their curiosity. 
Though he had agreed with their verdict of 
temporary banishment of his son, the father’s 
heart was hot with wrath at the necessity for 
it. He would not take his neighbors, good 
friends though he knew they were proving 
themselves to be, into his confidence—at 
least, not just at once. 

Squire Medbury rose and held out his 
hand, a pleasant smile on his weatherbeaten 
face. 

“ Good day to you, Hundley! I’m glad 
you see the wisdom of the course we suggest. 




LUCKY SHOT 


19 


Good-by, Brad! Don’t think we’re blaming 
you for all this, my boy! On the contrary 
we are proud of your skill with your gun, 
and only sorry that circumstances have 
turned what should have been a cause for 
congratulation into an embarrassing situa¬ 
tion.” 

Soon father and son were alone in the of¬ 
fice, the lawyer looking a trifle ashamed of 
his resentment of the other’s kindly advice: 
advice which was wise, as well as kindly. 

“ He means well—they all mean well,” he 
told Brad. “ But somehow it riles me that 
all the ferment across the river should crys¬ 
tallize around this one trivial incident of 

yours. However-” He straightened his 

shoulders and threw back his head as though 
visibly dismissing the subject. 46 Now, 
Brad, cheer up! A fine solution of this 
problem suddenly came to me a few minutes 
ago. You know your Uncle Ned-” 

The boy’s expression of injured dignity 
underwent a rapid change. His eyes were 
eager, the sternly set lips curved into a smile. 





20 


LUCKY SHOT 


“ I should say I do know Uncle Ned! Oh, 
father, you don’t mean-” 

Hundley nodded and smiled. 

“ Ned will be in Independence soon— 
ought to be there now, as a matter of fact. 
He wrote that he was not going back on the 
regular trip to the Fort, but would return 
with a Captain Blunt, who is going to Santa 
Fe. If we can induce Ned to take you back 
with him—William Bent is a good friend of 
mine and he’ll make you welcome at his fort, 
I have no doubt. A year’s experience-” 

“ A year? Will you really let me stay 
a year? ” 

“ There won’t be any 4 letting ’ about it,” 
Hundley said ruefully. 44 Once you reach 
Bent’s Fort, there’ll be no opportunity to 
return before next summer. It’s hard on us 
all, my boy, but it seems best.” 

Brad was speechless with excitement and 
delight. 

Ned Hundley, who was but ten years older 
than himself, was a hero in his nephew’s eyes. 
He had run away from home when he was 




LUCKY SHOT 


21 


fourteen, joined the Bents, those adventurous 
brothers who were rapidly setting the im¬ 
print of their name and power on the track¬ 
less West, and the St. Vrains, in their scout¬ 
ing expeditions. Ned was now one of Bent’s 
assistants in the marvelous Fort which was 
the talk of the trapper country. 

Brad had hung breathlessly on such tales 
of the Fort as he could extract from the 
rather laconic young man who had visited 
them twice in the last three years. Brad 
knew the plan of the Fort by heart, knew 
how many hunters were necessary to supply 
the place with meat, knew of the great brass 
cannon which stood at the gates by day and 
was brought inside the Fort at sundown. 

There was a young man down there, a 
friend of Uncle Ned’s, of whom Brad had 
heard a good deal. Kit Carson his name 
was, and Ned Hundley was never weary of 
telling of his exploits. If Brad spent a year 
—or at least the greater part of a year—at 
Bent’s Fort, he would undoubtedly see Car- 
son himself, a prospect so glorious that he 


22 


LUCKY SHOT 


heaped silent though none the less fervent 
blessings upon the unlucky shot which had 
precipitated the Indian trouble. 

He was soon to discover, however, that his 
mother did not receive the plan of her son’s 
exile with the same warm aj^proval given it 
by Brad himself. She grew very pale as she 
listened to her husband’s careful explanation 
of the boy’s danger and his innocent involve¬ 
ment of the town. But she agreed with them 
both that Brad’s immediate removal from 
the village was not only desirable but actually 
necessary, and somewhat reluctantly she gave 
her consent to the expedition to Bent’s Fort. 

“I know Ned will take good care of him,” 
she said anxiously to her husband. “ And a 
fort ought to be a safe place, if any place is. 
But the long journey down there, James! 
Won’t Brad be in danger every mile of the 
way? ” 

“ Danger? Not a bit of it,” was the re¬ 
assuring reply. “ Ned is going down with 
a train of fifty-two wagons—far too large 
for any Indians to dare attack. Couldn’t 



LUCKY SHOT 23 

be a better opportunity for the boy! ” He 
spoke the more emphatically for the reason 
that his own doubts had begun to stir. The 
Santa Fe Trail had been the scene of many 
a tragedy. Many a train of trappers and 
traders had been set upon and murdered for 
the wares they carried beneath their wagon 
tops. And there was the new and less pro¬ 
tected trail which lay between Bent’s Fort 
and the old Santa Fe Trail! Brad’s father 
had to remind himself that his brother was a 
seasoned Indian fighter and made the jour¬ 
ney up to Missouri every year in safety. 

Brad’s young brother and sister were filled 
with admiring awe. Brad became at once to 
them a person of extreme importance: a boy 
who had stirred the Indians up to such an 
extent that he had to be sent away so that 
peace could be kept along the border! 

They called out parting requests as they 
stood beside the horse block two mornings 
later, watching Brad mount his black horse, 
Greased Lightning, and their father climb 
more deliberately into his own saddle. Mr. 


24 


LUCKY SHOT 


Hundley was going as far as Independence 
with Brad to arrange with his brother for 
the trip to the Fort. 

“ Bring me back a Mexican dolly,” pleaded 
little Ruth. 

“ Bring me a Mexican knife! ” small Jim 
roared. 

“ Brad, take care of yourself,” Mrs. Hund¬ 
ley whispered, her arms about her tall son’s 
neck as he leaned from his saddle to kiss her. 

“ Come, Brad, we’ve two hard days’ riding 
ahead of us and we’d best be starting,” his 
father called impatiently. The parting was 
hard for his wife, he knew, and he felt that 
the briefer it could be made, the better. 

Brad wheeled his horse, snatched off his 
wide-brimmed hat to wave it at the little 
group around the horse block and then trot¬ 
ted gaily out of the town which had been his 
home for sixteen years. 


CHAPTER TWO 

“ So you think you’d like to travel down to 
the Fort with me, eh, Brad? ” Ned Hund¬ 
ley inquired. He was standing before his 
own wagon in the long train about to depart 
from the outskirts of Independence. Brad 
and his father had been caught in a storm 
and their journey delayed by the deep mud 
of the roads so that they had reached Cap¬ 
tain Blunt’s caravan only an hour or two be¬ 
fore the actual start. James Hundley had 
placed the situation regarding Brad before 
his brother in a few concise words. Without 
answering, Ned had turned to put a question 
to his nephew. 

“ Yes, Uncle Ned,” came the decorous 
answer. 

His relative grinned derisively in reply. 

“ Let’s drop the uncle part of it right 


25 


26 


LUCKY SHOT 


here,” he suggested. “ I don’t feel elderly 
and dignified enough to be thus addressed by 
a strapping young fellow an inch or two 
taller than I am myself. Anyway, we are 
not much on titles down at the Fort.” 

Brad returned his infectious grin. As he 
and his father neared Independence he had 
been beset by doubts of his own good luck. 
Suppose the train had already gone! His 
uncle’s letter—a letter which had brought 
great disappointment to the family at St. 
Joseph because it told of Ned’s inability to 
visit them on this trip—had mentioned the 
fifth of October as the starting date, and this 
was certainly the fifth. Yet the Captain 
might have changed his mind and gone the 
day before. In that case, he reflected, he 
might easily overtake the train, traveling as 
he did on horseback, and the train proceed¬ 
ing with necessary slowness. 

Or, supposing Uncle Ned would say there 
was no room for him at the Fort! It was a 
crowded place, by all accounts, and Brad 
really had no legitimate business there. Per- 



LUCKY SHOT 


27 


haps visitors—and uninvited visitors at that 
—were not made welcome within those adobe 
walls. 

But the train had not gone, and Ned 
Hundley was not only willing but appar¬ 
ently delighted to have Brad go along. 

“ What else will he need in the way of an 
outfit? ” his father was hurriedly inquiring. 
“ There isn’t much time, but he could get a 
few things in the stores here and then ride on 
and overtake you. I don’t suppose you 
make very good time with these wagons.” 

“ Fifteen miles a day, if all goes well. 
Ten, eight, sometimes not more than five, if 
we strike mud. As to an outfit—what did 
you bring along? ” he demanded of Brad, 
glancing at the well-filled saddlebags 
Greased Lightning carried so easily. 

“ Three changes of underwear, another 
suit, pair of boots, powder and shot for his 
gun,” James Hundley answered for him. 
“ Some knicknacks in the way of soap and 
towels that his mother insisted on. A Bible. 
A hundred dollars in gold. Some extra fine 





28 


LUCKY SHOT 


tobacco as a present to William Bent. A 
hunting-knife-” 

“ Great snakes!” the young uncle ex¬ 
claimed admiringly. “You could go around 
the Horn with that get-up. No need to buy 
him anything more, Jim. If he runs short, 
there are the stores at the Fort, you know.” 

“ Stores? But they carry nothing but 
beads and flummery for the Indians, I take 
it! ’Way down there, six hundred miles 
from civilization-” 

“ Man, we’ve got our own civilization! 
The Fort is a little city within its own walls. 
Why, we’ve even got a billiard table,” he 
added, enjoying the look of amazement which 
spread over his brother’s face. “ All the 
comforts of home at the crossroads of the 
desert.” 

Just how wild and desolate that desert 
was, he forebore to say. He saw that Brad’s 
father was troubled at letting the boy go so 
far from home, and he set himself good- 
naturedly to reassure his brother. 

It proved, however, that there was little 




LUCKY SHOT 29 

time for either reassurance or information. 
The command to get under way had been 
given, and the big wagons were falling pon¬ 
derously into place in the long train. The 
three Hundleys exchanged handclasps, 
Brad reined Greased Lightning into place 
alongside Ned’s wagon, and the start to 
Bent’s Fort had been begun. 

The wagons, Brad learned that first day, 
were not the Conestogas, which were to come 
in later years, but Murphy wagons, made in 
St. Louis, and used extensively on the Santa 
Fe Trail. They had a maximum capacity 
of five tons, and it required six teams of mules 
or six yoke of oxen to draw them. 

Behind the wagons came the “ cavvy,” or 
herd of horses for use when the company 
reached its destination. The cavvy was al¬ 
ways put in charge of a “ greenhorn,” and ar¬ 
duous indeed was the task assigned to the 
young fellow. 

Brad made the acquaintance of the herder 
on the first night of their encampment. That 
he was a runaway was an open secret. He 


30 


LUCKY SHOT 


stubbornly refused to reveal his name, so the 
men called him “ Blue ” because of the 
stained and soiled dragoon suit of that color 
he wore. His avowed mission was to “ fight 
the Injuns.” He carried a pistol which he 
declared in later life was “ as big as the 
palm of my hand.” History was to know 
him as Oliver P. Wiggins, for twelve 
years the intimate friend and assistant to Kit 
Carson, and himself a guide and hunter of 
much repute. But through all the long 
journey down to where the trail divided for 
Bent’s Fort, and in the subsequent adven¬ 
tures, the two boys knew together, young 
Wiggins was “ Blue ” to Brad, and as Brad 
and Blue they entered into a boyish compact 
of friendship. 

“How many of these wagons are bound 
for the Fort? ” Brad asked Ned. 

“ Only two. The regular train started 
back in August. Blunt is taking this outfit 
down to Taos to trade with the Mexicans.” 

“ Furs? ” 

“ No, the Mexicans aren’t much on trap- 


LUCKY SHOT 


31 


ping. Silver and turquoise and dried beans 
—that’s what the Captain’ll get for his gun¬ 
powder and sleazy silk and white flour. The 
Fort’s the place to go for fur trading. I 
don’t want to boast, Brad, but as a plain mat¬ 
ter of fact, we have the very best of the buf¬ 
falo-robe trade. Not even the Astor Com¬ 
pany compares with the business we do in 
them. You see, the Fort splits the Santa 
Fe Trail, really. There’s the old route 
known as the Cimarron, but the Fort route 
saves a good deal of time for the Mexican- 
bound traveler.” 

“ How old is the Fort? ” 

“ Ten years. Doesn’t seem that long since 
I went down there, a raw, scared boy of six¬ 
teen and with another raw, scared boy of six¬ 
teen, helped the Bents and the St. Vrains 
build the Fort.” 

“ The other boy was Carson? ” 

“ Sure—Carson. We all went through 
the smallpox siege together. I had it lightly, 
but Bent and Carson—the Indians didn’t 
know Bill Bent when he finally lifted the 





32 LUCKY SHOT 

ban on the Fort and allowed them to come 
back.” 

“ Tell me about it,” Brad begged. “ Who 
else was there? ” 

“ The three Bents—Charles, William, and 
George,” Ned ticked off the names on his 
fingers. “ The two St. Yrains, Marcellin 

and Ceran. Ceran’s full name is-” he 

grinned at his nephew— 44 Ceran de Hault 
de Lassus de St. Vrain! ” 

“ Help! ” said Brad. 

44 We don’t call him all that,” Ned com¬ 
forted him. 44 He’s a fine chap, too, though 
rather queer-looking. Anyway, as I was 
saying, five of those St. Louis traders came 
down to establish a fort of their own, and I 
came along because of Jim’s friendship for 
William Bent. Carson—well, he was an¬ 
other runaway, like the boy you were chum¬ 
ming with a while ago. We’d just got the 
Fort well started when smallpox broke 
out-” 

44 But where did it come from—’way down 
there? ” 






LUCKY SHOT 


33 


Ned gave a rueful chuckle. We had it 
specially sent to us. In fact, we paid good 
money for it. You see,” he went on in ex¬ 
planation, “ Bill wanted to make his Fort 
sure-enough weatherproof. Adobe—’dobe, 
as we mostly call it down there—will crumble 
a bit under bad weather conditions, so Bent 
had a lot of Mexican wool sent across the 
river—the Arkansas River marks the border 
between American land and Mexican, you 
know—and mixed it with the ’dobe. And 
the wool was as full of smallpox as a dog is 
of fleas. We all took it—and thousands of 
Indians would have taken it, too, and died of 
it, because the pox goes hard with a redskin 
—if it hadn’t been for Bent’s forethought.” 
Brad was deeply interested. 

“ What’d he do?” 

“ Sent a Mexican herder named Francisco 
to warn the Cheyennes not to come near the 
Fort. It was two years before we got it 
stamped out—the Mexican workers all had 
it, you see—and then Bent had everything 
burned that could carry the disease and sent 







LUCKY SHOT 


< 34 

for the Indians to come back. No telling 
how many lives he saved, old Bill Bent! ” 

“ He must be a wonderful man! ” 

“ Wonderful? He’s more than that,” 
Ned said heartily. “ He’s never done but 
one thing I couldn’t admire in the years I’ve 
been with him. That was marrying an In¬ 
dian wife, Owl Woman. She has a daughter 
named Mary now, and I’m bound to say 
she’s made Bent a good wife.” 

“ Do many of them—white men, I mean 
—marry squaws? ” 

“ More than I wish there did. Bent is 
very strict about it. He won’t recognize a 
marriage unless it’s been performed accord¬ 
ing to the rites he himself adopted, and he 
usually performs the ceremony himself. 
Any of the traders who takes an Indian wife 
without this ceremony is fined and forced 
to pay a certain sum to the chief of the tribe. 
Law and order are Bent’s watchwords down 
at the Fort. You’ll understand why when 
we get there.” 

“ Indians? ” 


LUCKY SHOT 


35 


“ Indians and Mexicans. The Cheyennes 
and Arapahoes have a winter camp in the 
Big Timbers, thirty-two miles from the Fort. 
The Bed Biver Comanches and the Utes do 
all their trading with us, too. And about 
every tribe of redskins from the Bio Grande 
to the Colorado pays us a visit sooner or 
later. It takes discipline and diplomacy to 
keep peace with ’em all, and Bent has those 
qualities in equal measure.” 

“ How about the Mexicans? ” 

“ I’d rather do business with an Indian any 
day than with a Mexican,” Ned declared with 
emphasis. “ You never know where you’re 
4 at ’ with a Mexican. An Indian is treach¬ 
erous, but after you get used to him, you can 
pretty well foretell what he’ll do under given 
circumstances. With a Mexican, it’s dif¬ 
ferent. He may be a yellow-livered coward 
one day, and as reckless and dangerous as 
one of his own rattlesnakes the next. Why, 
their own peons would rather work for an 
Indian master any day. The Cheyennes 
around the Fort have a pretty little way of 


36 


LUCKY SHOT 


crossing the river and kidnapping peons to 
use as herders, and when the Mexicans come 
over to rescue their slaves, the peons’ll hide 
out to escape ’em. That shows! ” 

Brad drank in, with eager ears, all that 
Ned could tell him of the Fort. More and 
more was it becoming to him, as it was in 
truth, a place unique in America. He pic¬ 
tured it standing alone on the great rolling 
plains, surrounded by savage tribes of In¬ 
dians but itself as peaceful as a New England 
village. He thought of the men who had 
founded it: the Bents, each of whom had a 
history which already read like the wildest 
fiction; the two St. Vrains, reserved, in¬ 
scrutable men who loved to explore the inac¬ 
cessibilities of the Rocky Mountains; Kit 
Carson, who was rapidly becoming a na¬ 
tional figure—though little did he realize it 
down in his humble home in Taos. 

There was ample time for the narration of 
Ned’s exciting tales. Hay after day the 
train jogged southwest, and the monotony of 
it all began to rasp Brad’s nerves. 



LUCKY SHOT 


37 


\ 

The day’s procedure never varied. The 
men rose with the sun, cooked and ate a hearty 
breakfast, yoked the oxen or harnessed the 
mules, and were off, not to pause till the noon 
hour, when a cold meal was eaten. There 
were no women in this outfit, and the rudest 
methods were employed with the cooking. 
Nevertheless the sour-dough bread was al¬ 
ways light, the coffee strong and clear, and 
the bacon cooked to a nicety. A good out¬ 
door cook—and every effort was made by 
the traders to obtain an experienced one— 
could turn out a good meal with meager sup¬ 
plies and only a fire of buffalo chips on which 
to cook it. 

At sunset, camp was made near a water 
hole, the stock was picketed, or enclosed 
within the wagon circle, and the men un¬ 
rolled their blankets in the open, or under 
the wagons, as they pleased. 

The third or fourth night of their journey 
Brad had brought out his harmonica, a gift 
from St. Louis, which he could handle profi¬ 
ciently. 




38 


LUCKY SHOT 


The delight of the drivers was pathetic. 
Hungry for music, they kept Brad playing 
until his lips were dry and his tongue swollen. 
Songs they knew, they sang, the chorus of 
voices rolling sonorously across the wide 
plain. New ones they practised until they 
learned them. 

“ Give us some music, kid,” came the gen¬ 
eral demand every night as soon as supper 
was over. And Brad would obligingly com¬ 
ply. Swaggering roustabout song, or senti¬ 
mental ballad, it mattered not to the drivers. 
All they asked for was a “ tune.” 

“ Jiggery Jones ” was a favorite. 

Jiggery Jones, Lord bless his bones, 

Bought him a knife that was sharp and bright; 

Bought him a gun and a horse that could run, 

For to kill every Injun in sight. 

Chorus 

Jiggery Jones! 

Jiggery Jones! 

What has become of his honor’ble bones? 

’Twas not in a churchyard they silenced his 
groans— 


LUCKY SHOT 


39 


' . . \ 

’Cause out on the prairie there ain’t no stones. 

Jig-ger-y Jones! 

Pore Jiggery Jones! 

The nights grew sharper and fires were 
kept, though the sun still blazed down on 
their heads all day. 

Brad was proud of his comradeship with 
his young uncle and enjoyed the distinction 
of riding beside his wagon, but the hours he 
most enjoyed were those when he fell back 
to talk with his friend Blue. The two of 
them, though coming from vastly different 
homes, had much in common, not the least 
of which was their boyish admiration for Kit 
Carson, whom both cherished lively hopes of 
seeing on this thrilling expedition. How soon 
their hopes were to be realized, neither boy 
had the faintest idea. 

It was the last of November before the 
Arkansas River was crossed and the train 
was close to the hostile Kiowa country. 




CHAPTER THREE 

“ Hey, Hundley, come here! ” 

Captain Blunt beckoned to Ned, who 
promptly threw down the rope he was knot¬ 
ting and went toward the captain’s wagon. 
As he went, he beckoned to Brad, who fol¬ 
lowed eagerly. An Indian runner had come 
into the camp an hour before, and Brad was 
agog with curiosity to know the news he had 
brought. That it was disquieting was ev¬ 
idenced by Captain Blunt’s look of uneasi¬ 
ness. So perturbed he was that he took no 
notice of the boy, whom otherwise he would 
have dismissed from the interview. 

“ Hundley, that Crow that just came in 
tells me the Kiowas are on the warpath! ” 

Ned nodded assentingly, apparently un¬ 
concerned. 

“But, man! We’re supposed to be at 


40 


LUCKY SHOT 


41 


peace with the Kiowas! I had positive in¬ 
formation to that effect before I left Inde¬ 
pendence. By the terms of an agreement 

made with them last fall-” 

“Bah!” Ned interrupted. “When did 
a Kiowa ever respect any agreement? You 
can count on it, as surely as you can on the 
sun’s rising, that about once every two years 
they’ll go out and raise mischief with the 
whites, treaty or no treaty. I’ve been look¬ 
ing for just this message to come.” 

“ Oh, you have, have you ? ” The Captain 
threw heavy sarcasm into his voice. “ Then 
maybe you’ll be good enough to tell me what 
we’re to do—fifty-two wagons loaded with 
valuable merchandise and a lot of greenhorn 
Missourians driving ’em! ” 

“ They’ve all got guns, haven’t they? ” 
“Guns, yes! But what in thunder do 
they know about Injun fighting? Why in 
tarnation I was so foolish as to start out with 
a lot of mule-drivers—but I had a right to 
expect the Kiowas would keep the peace 
they promised! ” 





42 


LUCKY SHOT 


Ned Hundley yawned. 

“ There isn’t a Kiowa born that’ll keep 
any peace longer’n two years.” 

“ Well, what are we to do? ” demanded 
the Captain sharply. “ Hundley, stir your¬ 
self and give me some advice. You’re an old 
Indian man.” 

Neither the Captain nor Ned himself saw 
the humor of so designating a young fellow 
of twenty-six. Experience and not years 
counted in this country, and, judged by the 
sharp battles and lesser skirmishes Hundley 
had had with the redskins, he was indeed an 
“ old Indian man.” 

“ Ca’m yourself, Captain, ca’m yourself,” 
Ned drawled provokingly. “ You may re¬ 
member I sort of hinted back in Independ¬ 
ence that it would be wise to take a few ex¬ 
perienced men along. Now—there isn’t a 
thing you can do but keep driving straight 
ahead. If you go back, the Injuns’ll over¬ 
take you. Same if you go ahead.” 

“ You take it mighty blamed cool,” the 
other spluttered. “ If you don’t care for 



LUCKY SHOT 


43 


yourself and your goods, here’s your 
nephew-” 

“ Oh, I reckon Brad can take care of him¬ 
self. Pie’s a good shot.” The delicate but 
unmistakable emphasis Ned put on the pro¬ 
noun made Blunt flush resentfully. He 
had made the mistake of economizing on his 
drivers, relying, despite Ned’s warning, on 
the latest peace with the Kiowas. Now he 
bitterly repented his economy. Of what use 
to obtain drivers at low wage if he lost his en¬ 
tire stock of goods and even his life? The 
reflection did not make him the more pleased 
with Ned’s attitude, and he gave vent to his 
feelings in a few sizzling words. 

Ned listened, shrugged his shoulders, and 
walked away. He had said all he had to say 
to the Captain in Independence when he 
strongly advised a better equipment for the 
journey. 

“ Let him stew in his own juice a while,” 
he remarked to Brad as the two went back 
to their wagon. “ A scare’ll do him good.” 
Brad was puzzled. 



44 


LUCKY SHOT 


“ But—Ned, it’s really pretty dangerous, 
isn’t it? ” 

His young uncle looked at him keenly. 
“ Scared?” 

“ Not scared, exactly, but I think we ought 
to take precautions against a possible attack. 
It seems foolish to walk straight into danger.” 

Ned gave his shoulder a whack that sent 
the boy reeling. 

“ Good for you, old sport! Daredevil 
recklessness is a sign of ignorance every¬ 
where. The experienced chap walks with 
his eyes open and dodges trouble whenever 
he can. Show me a man that ignores pre¬ 
cautions, and I’ll show you a fool. Now I’ll 
tell you.” He sank his voice until it was in¬ 
audible to the men about him. “I’m not 
worrying about the Kiowas, for this reason: 
Carson’ll know of their breaking their peace 
treaty, and he’ll come, or send some one along 
the trail to meet us. Old Blunt needn’t hold 
on to his scalp with both hands for a while yet. 
If there’s a whisper of unrest in the Black 
Hills on Monday, Carson’ll hear it down in 


LUCKY SHOT 


45 


Taos on Tuesday and make preparations ac¬ 
cordingly. I’m not worrying any. Car- 
son’ll look out for this train.” 

He proved to be a true prophet. Hardly 
had they come within twenty miles of the 
Kiowa territory when Carson appeared, lead¬ 
ing a company of trappers from Taos, or 
“ Touse,” as it was generally called. Cap¬ 
tain Blunt’s relief was almost hysterical in 
its expression and the Missouri drivers were 
not less loud in their gratitude for the moun¬ 
taineers’ protection. 

However, after two days of journeying 
together, the Missourians were amazed and 
deeply disgusted to see the rescue party on 
the third morning tie their horses to the wagon 
tails and themselves take cover beneath the 
canvas tops. The danger zone had been 
reached, and apparently Carson and his men 
had turned cowards. 

The drivers made no effort to restrain their 
feeling of contempt. 

44 Did ye ever see the like of it? ” one lanky 
individual demanded of the train at large. 


46 


LUCKY SHOT 


“ Injun fighters, and they dive for kiver like 
a gal ’feared of a thunderstorm! I ain’t 
claimin’ to be no professional scout, but I’m 
blamed if I ain’t got nerve enough to stay out 
in daylight and keep holt of my gun.” 

“ Wal, look at the little runt,” another said, 
referring to Carson. “ I been hearin’ of this 
here no-tor-yus fighter an’ I looked to see a 
fine, upstandin’ man. An’ what does he turn 
out to be? A baby-faced, blue-eyed, soft- 
spoken little feller that couldn’t scare a flock 
of wild turkeys away! I shore am disap- 
p’inted! ” 

Brad also could not conceal his amazement 
at the action of the Carson men. The sight 
of twenty bearded mountaineers, fresh from 
hazardous adventure in the heart of the In¬ 
dian country, crawling under the wagon cov¬ 
ers like a flock of frightened women, dis¬ 
mayed and shocked him. He turned to his 
uncle only to receive another and far worse 
shock. Ned, too, had abandoned his horse 
and was even now drawing his boots beneath 
his own canvas cover. Captain Blunt, for 


LUCKY SHOT 


47 


no reason that Brad could understand, was 
vainly trying to swing the train into the usual 
circle which was formed at niedit. 

It began to dawn on Brad that not coward¬ 
ice but a good and sufficient reason was re¬ 
sponsible for the fighters’ action. 

When a sharp command from Ned bade 
him tie Greased Lightning to the wagon and 
crawl in beside his uncle, the boy wasted no 
time in question or remonstrance. Hardly 
was he in place before blood-curdling yells 
and war cries sounded from over the sand 
hills to the north and down swept a band of 
Kiowas, hideous in war paint, their almost 
naked bodies gleaming with oil, their lances 
brandished, their bows taut for the first shots. 
On they came straight toward the little hud¬ 
dle of wagons. 

“ Tell the men not to fire! ” Carson called 
sharply; but the frightened drivers ignored 
the command and began emptying their guns 
toward the redskins, not a shot taking effect 
at that distance. 

Carson and his men made no move. The 


48 


LUCKY SHOT 


drivers had taken refuge inside the circle now 
and given themselves up for dead. 

Nearer and nearer came the Kiowas, and 
arrows began to fall alarmingly close to the 
wagons. 

Then from beneath the slightly rolled can- 

i. 

vas covers, the ugly barrels of a score of rifles 
poked forth and a deadly fire of bullets 
mowed down the advance line of the Indians. 

They halted in consternation, at once rec¬ 
ognizing the tactics of experienced fighters. 
They had supposed the train to be manned by 
greenhorn drivers whom they could easily 
frighten away, after which they would plun¬ 
der the richly laden wagons at their leisure. 

Their brief hesitation was ended by an¬ 
other volley from the wagons. This time 
fully a score of naked braves tumbled from 
their horses and sprawled on the ground, 
most of them lifeless, a few of them twisting 
and writhing in pain. 

“ After ’em, men! ” 

Carson leaped from his wagon and was on 
his horse in an instant, followed by his com- 



“After ’Em, Men!’’—P age 48 





LUCKY SHOT 


49 


pany. Ned joined them, and Brad sprang 
on Greased Lightning and galloped after. 
A wild exhilaration filled him. The rem¬ 
nant of the Kiowa band was fleeing madly 
toward the sand hills. As their pursuers 
pressed them more closely, they threw down 
their lances and bows and laid themselves 
along the backs of their horses and urged 
them to even greater speed. 

“ Give it to ’em! ” 

Carson, his usually mild eyes gleaming 
like blue ice, his face white with purpose, 
shouted the command and again the big rifles 
poured their relentless fire into the ranks of 
the fleeing Indians. The Kiowas could be 
taught to respect the terms of their peace 
treaties only by cruel punishment when they 
broke their vows to the white men. It was 
by such drastic remedies that Carson had 
come to be dreaded by the Indians all over 
the Southwest, and had made for himself 
such a reputation that the very mention of 
his name was often enough to turn an Indian 
attack. 


50 


LUCKY SHOT 


An hour later, the train was once more in 
motion as peacefully as though nothing had 
occurred to halt its progress. The drivers 
were a chastened and humbled set of men who 
had no more to say of Indian-fighters who 
hid like girls in a thunderstorm. 

Brad could not take his eyes from Carson. 
Like the Missouri greenhorns, he had been 
deeply disappointed in the appearance of the 
famous scout. He had vaguely thought to 
see a giant of a man, black-haired, with flash¬ 
ing black eyes and an expression of awe¬ 
inspiring ferocity. Instead he beheld a 
stocky person of less than ordinary height, 
his hair a meek brown, his eyes either a light 
blue or a gray, it was impossible to decide 
which. He spoke in a drawl, and so gently 
that the boy marveled that his words were 
ever obeyed. 

That was Carson when inactive. 

Now the scout’s eyes were blue and blazing, 
his mouth was set in a taut grim line, and 
authority radiated from him. Brad noticed 
for the first time how broad and deep was his 


LUCKY SHOT 


51 


chest, how the muscles beneath the deerskin 
coat he wore ridged themselves as he grasped 
his heavy gun. 

He noticed, too, how implicitly these 
bearded companions of his obeyed his slight¬ 
est word. Most of them were twice his age, 
but that they held him in the highest respect 
was evident. 

The precision with which the repulse of 
the Kiowas had been carried forth told its 
own tale to Brad of hundreds of such skir¬ 
mishes. The boy, pondering the episode, 
which he realized was but an episode and not 
an event in the life of Carson, conceived then 
and there an admiration for the quiet scout 
which was to be increased a hundredfold be¬ 
fore the winter had passed. 

“ Say, Brad,” Blue began the moment his 
friend dropped back to the cavvy, “ wasn’t 
that the grandest little dust-up you ever did 
see? Carson—say, I’d give ten years of my 
life just to go ’long with him and keep his 
boots greased! ” 



CHAPTER FOUR 


“ Hey, Brad! Wake up! We’re there! ” 

Brad Hundley, dozing in his saddle while 
the sagacious Lightning jogged faithfully 
along, started at his uncle’s shout. It was 
pitch dark, and strain his eyes as he would, 
he could see no evidence of the Fort. 

“Not that way, boy! To your left—look 
to your left! ” 

Brad jerked about and nearly cried out 
in his surprise. An enormous white bulk 
gleamed dully in the darkness. In front was 
a light—a veritable twinkling light which— 
he was to discover in a few moments—came 
from a huge lantern hung outside the gates 
of the Fort. 

“ That’s it—that’s Bent’s Fort! We’re 
here at last.” 

Brad wondered a little at the jubilance of 

52 






LUCKY SHOT 


53 


Ned’s voice. What he did not realize, of 
course, was that the huge adobe enclosure 
was home to the young man: the only home 
he had known for ten years. Also there was 
for those who spent any time within the Fort 
a curious sort of fascination which drew them 
back to it, again and again, when they left 
its hospitable walls. 

“ Halt!” 

The challenge rang from the sentinel in¬ 
side the gates. 

Ned Hundley answered cheerily. 

44 Wagons from Independence—Hundley 
in charge.” 

There was a click, a ponderous creaking, 
and the gates swung open. 

44 Howdy, Ned! You’re a day early, ain’t 
ye? A couple of Cheyennes reported you 
on the trail day before yistiddy, and we fig¬ 
ured you’d be here ’bout to-morrer.” 

44 We’re loaded fairly light, and the mules 
are in good condition,” Ned answered, beck¬ 
oning the driver of the second wagon to drive 
into the graveled enclosure which was known 


54 


LUCKY SHOT 


to the white men as the court, and to the 
Mexicans as the patio. “ Leave the wagons 
back in the sheds and turn the stock into the 
corral,” he directed. “ Bent here? ” 

Before the man could answer a jovial voice 
hailed the travelers. 

“Back, are you, Ned? Good! Had a 
safe trip, I hear, and no trouble with the 
Indians.” 

“ A safe trip,” Ned repeated, shaking the 
other’s hand heartily. 

Brad thought of that thrilling incident with 
the Kiowas, and wondered that no reference 
was made to it. Later, he came to agree with 
those within the Fort that any journey which 
was without casualties was a safe one, no 
matter how many Indian attacks were re¬ 
pelled. 

“ Bill, this is Jim’s boy, Brad. You re¬ 
member Jim? ” 

“ You bet I remember Jim! Glad to see 
you, Brad. Come to spend a year or so at 
the Fort? That’s good! That’s good!” 

The warmth of the welcome stilled the last 


LUCKY SHOT 


55 


qualm the boy had had about his unannounced 
descent on the Fort. Plainly William Bent 
was delighted to have his friend’s son as his 
guest for an indefinite time. 

“ I’ll call Charlotte and have her rustle 
you some food-” 

“ We’ve eaten.” Ned stayed him with up¬ 
raised hand. “ What we both want—and all 
we want for to-night—is a bed under us. 
We’ve been on the trail since long before sun- 
up.” 

Brad was indeed stumbling with weariness 
as he followed a hastily summoned squaw to 
the upper tier of the fort rooms. It was a 
clean little room, its walls gleaming with 
whitewash in the light of the candle his guide 
carried. It contained a camp bed, a roughly 
hewn wooden chest, and a stool. Brad pulled 
off his clothes and, without even a glance at 
his novel quarters, blew out the candle and 
flung himself down upon the blankets and 
was asleep. 

He was awakened by a curious medley of 
sounds. Cocks were crowing loudly some- 





56 LUCKY SHOT 

where outside his window, dogs barked, voices 
shouted. 

He sat up, bewildered to find himself in a 
strange place, above all, a place with walls 
and a roof. Bright sunlight streamed 
through the window, which was nothing more 
than a slit in the adobe wall. The whiteness 
of the room was dazzling. The whole build¬ 
ing, he learned later, was kept in this spot¬ 
less condition by frequent applications of 
whitewash made from a certain kind of clay 
found not far from the Fort. 

Not stopping to dress, the boy thrust his 
head through the opening and gazed down 
at the scene in the courtyard below. 

Brad gasped, unable for a moment to 
speak. 

It was surely as strange and interesting a 
sight as any boy could imagine in his wildest 
dreams. Just below him was a square, un¬ 
roofed space, its surface neatly graveled. 
Opening off this were the rooms of the Fort, 
set in the massive walls. These walls were 
eighteen feet high, seven feet thick at the 


LUCKY SHOT 


57 


base, and tapering off to two feet at the top. 
The fort itself was a huge rectangle, one 
hundred and fifty by one hundred feet. 
It faced east, where the gates opened directly 
upon the prairie across which ran the trail. 

The court was filled with people coming 
and going busily: trappers in buckskin shirts 
and fringed leggings; Mexican herders in 
flaring trousers and sugar-loaf hats; Indians 
blanket-wrapped, or nearly naked despite 
the sharp December air; squaws decked in 
odds and ends of American finery. 

From the blacksmith shop at the rear rang 
the sound of steel on steel, and a steady ham¬ 
mering indicated the carpenters’ quarters. 
Clerks stood, notebook in hand, checking the 
goods which were being unpacked from Ned 
Hundley’s wagons. The corral behind was 
indicated by squeals from the mules and an 
occasional neigh from a horse which, for some 
reason, had been held back from the drove, 
turned out at sunrise to graze. All was con¬ 
fusion, hurry, and a certain atmosphere of 
holiday merriment. 


58 


LUCKY SHOT 


Brad suddenly wanted to be in the midst 
of it. He dressed rapidly and made his way 
down the rude stairs hewn in the wall and 
presently found himself at the east end of 
the court off which the store and warehouses 
opened. Here Ned accosted him. 

“Hi, young fellow! Get your sleep out? 
I reckon you could make out with some 
breakfast now, couldn’t you? ” 

Brad assented emphatically. Despite his 
curiosity about the place in which he found 
himself, he was ravenous and wanted nothing 
else so much as some of the food the savory 
odors of which reached him from the adjoin¬ 
ing kitchen. 

“ I suppose we eat out there ? ” He jerked 
his head toward the patio where several iron 
pots simmered over small fires, and Indians 
and trappers squatted, dipping gravely into 
the food they contained. 

“ No, we’ll eat in the dining-room. Come 
along—I’ll show you.” 

Brad’s uncle led the way to a long room 
in the southern wall, and here Brad was sur- 



LUCKY SHOT 


59 


prised to find a polished table, chairs, and 
even a cabinet which contained dishes. 

“ Why—it’s just like a house! ” 

“ It’s a heap better than lots of houses,” 
Ned asserted proudly. “ We haven’t spent 
ten years down here without fixing the place 
up. Every trip we bring back something 
in the way of furniture from Independence. 
Sit down and I’ll yell for Charlotte to bring 
us some breakfast.” 

At his long “ Charrrrlotte! ” a fat negro 
woman appeared, ivory teeth displayed in a 
grin of welcome, kinky wool almost concealed 
beneath a bright red turban. 

“ Howdy, Marse Hundley! ” she ex¬ 
claimed, bobbing a curtsey. “ Huccome you 
git here so soon? You-all bring Charlotte 
some fofurraws? ” 

“ You bet,” Ned assured her. “ But we’ve 
got to eat bef ore we do anything else. We’re 
empty all the way down, Charlotte. What 
you got to give us? ” 

“ Charlotte feed you,” she promised. 
“ Who de young man wid you? ” 



60 


LUCKY SHOT 


“ He’s another Marse Hundley—my 
brother’s boy. You’ll have to make him 
some of your pumpkin pies, Charlotte, and 
put some fat on those bones of his.” 

The negress grunted. “ Punkin pies, 
punkin pies! All I hyar all day long is 
‘Charlotte, mek some punkin pies!’” 

“ That’s what you get for making them 
so well. Brad, just wait till you’ve tasted 
those pies! M’m! Wouldn’t one hit the 
spot right this minute? Back in Independ¬ 
ence there was a man wanted to sell me a cook 
—a pastry cook, Charlotte! He said she 
could make better pies than anybody west 
of the Mississippi. Offered to let me eat 
one-” 

Charlotte’s eyes flashed. “ Effen you-all 
brung any Missouri nigger down to ma 
kitchen-” 

“ Why, Charlotte, how could you imagine 
such a thing? ” Ned was plaintively re¬ 
proachful. “You know what I told that 
man ? I said, ‘ We have a cook down at the 
Fort that can make pies a king might be 





LUCKY SHOT 


61 


proud to eat. Why, they come all the way 
down from Philadelphia and all the way up 
from the Horn just to get a taste of Char¬ 
lotte’s pies. Don’t talk to me about your 
pastry cooks,’ I told him. ‘ I’m going 
straight back as fast as the mules can carry 
me to the best pastry cook in the States, let 
alone Mexico.’ ” 

Charlotte had been listening critically, her 
head on one side. Now, apparently satisfied 
with this extravagant tribute, she nodded and 
disappeared in the direction of her kitchen. 

“ Have to butter the old gal up now and 
then,” Ned explained with a grin. 

“ What was that she asked you for? Fo 
—what? ” 

“ Fofurraw. It’s what the Indians call 
ribbons and beads and stuff—folderols. It’s 
come to be a regular trade term. They’ll 
swap their finest skins for a handful of gew¬ 
gaws; and the men are just as bad.” 

“ And did you bring Charlotte some? ” 

“ You bet I did. Some for you to give 
her, too. Charlotte’s a character. It’ll pay 



62 


LUCKY SHOT 


you to get on the good side of her, Brad. 
She’s really the belle of the Fort.” 

“ Belle? A nigger? ” The Missouri boy 
raised his brows in acute disgust. 

“ Color doesn’t mean much down here, 
you’ll find. We have it in all shades. Char¬ 
lotte says herself that she’s 4 de onlee ladee 
in de whole Injun country.’ Look, here she 
comes now with food enough to feed a regi¬ 
ment, I’ll bet! ” 

The fat cook entered, followed by a train 
of satellites. Before the two hungry travel¬ 
ers she set a platter of bacon and eggs, the 
choicest dish the Fort had to offer. Great 
slices of bread made from unbolted flour, to 
be spread sparingly with molasses, were 
stacked on a plate. Of butter there was 
none, nor cream to put into the great mugs 
of strong black coffee. But there was the 
promised pumpkin pie, thick and luscious 
and creamy, its crust flaking away at the 
touch of the fork. Charlotte stood by, fat 
hands on her hips, and watched the consump¬ 
tion of the bounty she had provided. 


LUCKY SHOT 


63 


“ Dem Injuns all de time steal from Char¬ 
lotte, but Charlotte know how to fin’ food fur 
her friends,” she observed complacently. 
Then she put a question to Brad: “ You-all 
got a cook back home? ” And upon his as¬ 
senting, she said jealously, “ She mek you 
punkin pies as good as that? ” 

Obeying an admonitory nudge from Ned, 
Brad burst into fulsome praise of the pie he 
had just eaten. 

“ As good as this ? ” he exclaimed. “ Why, 
hers is watery and tough—almost uneatable 
compared to this!” Mentally he offered 
apology to old Mammy Bets, whose pastry 
was quite as good as Charlotte’s. “ This is 
the grandest pumpkin pie that anybody ever 
ate anywhere, any place. It’s worth the 
journey from Independence down here just 
to taste it. I could eat pie like this all day 
and all night, if I got the chance.” He 
stopped to take breath. 

Again Charlotte cocked her head to one 
side, critically weighing the quality and ex¬ 
tent of the praise she lived on. She nodded 


64 


LUCKY SHOT 


at last and began gathering together the 
dishes the two had emptied. 

“ I mek you more punkin pies,” she told 
them graciously, and Brad sank back in his 
seat, spent with his oratorical effort. 

“ Good work! ” Ned approved. “ If 
you succeed as well in all your contacts in the 
Fort—hello, Bill! Brad and I are late this 
morning. We’ve just finished breakfast.” 

“ Charlotte give you something good? ” 
their host inquired solicitously. “ I meant 
to speak to her about Brad here—prejudice 

her in his favor-” 

Ned chuckled. “ Brad’s been soft-soap¬ 
ing her like a house afire. She’s promised 
to make him lots of pumpkin pies. You 
know what that means! ” 

Bent smiled. “ Evidently you know how 
to handle her, young man! You’ll find it 
pays to keep on the soft side of our two Fort 
females, Charlotte and Rosalie. Rosalie’s 
the wife of the carpenter. They’re privi¬ 
leged characters, and they can make it mighty 
uncomfortable for anybody they take a dis- 





LUCKY SHOT 


65 


like to. Now, Ned, I’ve had the boys at 
work unpacking the wagons, and if you’ll 
step around to the store-rooms we can check 
over the lists. I guess Brad can look after 
himself for a while, can’t you, Brad? ” 

The boy assented joyfully and presently 
found himself out in the bright winter sun¬ 
shine, his eyes roving eagerly from one 
strange sight to another. 


CHAPTER FIVE 

Brad Hundley never forgot his first day 
in Bent’s Fort. Too young and untraveled 
to appreciate the unique position the place 
occupied, undoubtedly the most isolated 
dwelling-place in our country, nevertheless 
he succumbed at once to the fascination it 
held for white man and savage alike. 

Three hundred yards to the south and east 
flowed the Arkansas River. Just outside 
the east gate was a brass cannon which was 
punctiliously dragged in at sundown and re¬ 
turned to its place each morning. A little 
distance away to the front of the Fort was 
a small graveyard, a piteous reminder of the 
havoc wrought ten years before by the small¬ 
pox. 

There was a narrow gate at the north for 
the horses to pass through. Back of the 


66 


LUCKY SHOT 


67 


clerk’s quarters, the blacksmith shop, the car¬ 
penter shop, and the wagon shed, was the 
wide corral with snubbing-posts at either end. 
The ground was level for two miles outside 
the Fort to the north, but sloped gently down 
to the river on the other side. In the center 
of the graveled court was a hide-press, where 
all winter long the hunters bound their robes 
and furs into bales. 

Brad went through the gate, edging his 
way past the Indians who constantly entered 
and left the Fort, and surveyed its massive 
proportions from a little distance outside. 

He thrilled at the warlike appearance it 
presented. There was a bastion at the north¬ 
west and another at the southeast corner. 
The towers were loopholed for rifles, and 
along the battlements walked patrols with 
loaded muskets. The guards in the bastions 
stood always with burning matches by the 
cannon. Though not a military fort but a 
private enterprise of the Bents and the St. 
Vrains, no precaution had been overlooked to 
defend this fastness from the assaults of the 


68 


LUCKY SHOT 


Indians, whose white skin lodges along the 
river bank shone brightly in the sun. 

“ Great place, ain’t it? ” a voice inquired 
at Brad’s elbow. 

He turned to see a gnarled figure dressed 
in trapper’s clothes and with long gray hair 
escaping from a coonskin hat. The old man 
had come up with so noiseless a tread that 
Brad had been unaware of his presence until 
he spoke. 

“ Great? I should say it is great! ” The 
boy let out a long sigh of admiration. 

His companion was evidently pleased by 
this tribute, for he suddenly began to talk, 
gesticulating with a hand from which three 
fingers were missing. 

44 Bent, he done the thing up right whilst 

\ 

he was a-doin’ it. Everybody said it war a 
foolhardy idee, coming way down hyar whar 
Injuns is thicker’n flies round a ’lasses bar’l. 
But Bent he ginerally knows what he’s about, 
it’s been my experience. Sartain he’s made 
heaps of money outen the fur busi¬ 


ness. 


LUCKY SHOT 


69 


“ Who brings in all the skins ? The In¬ 
dians? ” 

“ Injuns, and the regular trappers and 
Carson and his men,” said the old fellow. 
“ I done a lot of trapping my own self in my 
day. Come to that, I kin bring in my load 
o’ beaver—full-grown beaver, too, not 
countin’ the kittens—with the best of ’em yit, 
even if I be shorn o’ some of my members.” 
He held up his mutilated hand for evidence. 

“ Caught it in a trap? ” Brad asked sym¬ 
pathetically. 

“ Worser’n that,” the other said in disgust. 
“ A Injun arrer tuck ’em off cleaner’n a 
knife could do it. Crow, doggone ’em all! ” 

“ Are there many Crows about here? ” 

“ Sonny, there air every kind o’ ornery 
redskin the Lord ever made—if He did make 
’em. I ain’t layin’ the blame of it on Him, 
noways. I reckon they trace their ancestry 
back to another party we hear considerable 
of. As I was sayin’, there air all kinds o’ 
Injuns hangin’ ’round this Fort day an 
night.” 



70 


LUCKY SHOT 


“ Are they allowed inside the Fort at 
night? ” 

“ Only them what’s related to folks in¬ 
side,” was the disgusted answer. “ An’ 
that’s a considerable number.” 

“ How many people really belong here? ” 

“ Wal—Bent hires between sixty an’ a 
hundred men, ’cordin’ to the season, an’ 
mostly they have families—big ones, too. 
That makes quite a mess o’ folks to be shut 
inside come sundown.” 

“ Are all the Indians—I mean those around 

here-” he swept a wide circle with his arm 

which took in the surrounding prairie— 
“ hostile? ” 

“ Not the Cheyennes—leastways, not the 
Southern Cheyennes. Bent married a Chey¬ 
enne wife, you know, an’ so did Carson. 
That helps to keep’ em friendly. The North- 
ern Cheyennes air apt to kick up a ruckus 
now an’ then, specially when they tie up with 
the Sioux.” 

“ Aren’t they the same tribe—the North¬ 
ern and the Southern Cheyennes? ” 







LUCKY SHOT 


71 


“ LTsed to be. Ain’t now. I’ll tell you 
how it happened.” He motioned Brad to a 
seat on a hummock of dried grass and took a 
position cross-legged beside the boy. 

“ Back eight years ago the Cheyennes all 
belonged to one tribe. They gathered one 
fall on the Cache la Poudre River for a coun¬ 
cil. Some of them was gittin’ sort o’ tired 
o’ the Black Hills an’ wanted to move on. 
Besides, White Thunder, one o’ their chiefs 
—he had a vision. The Great Spirit told 
him, he claimed, to go up the river and turn 
into a certain canon. He’d see an eagle thar, 
he was promised, an’ he was to shoot it. 
Whar it fell, thar’d be a bunch o’ medicine ar- 
rers. He was to take them arrers to the 
next council fire an’ on account o’ them the 
talk thar would be true talk, y’understand, 
an’ good medicine. 

“ Wal, White Thunder done it all ac¬ 
cordin’ to specifications, an’ he says the Great 
Spirit told him to move on down to the Ar¬ 
kansas River an’ make a new home for the 
Cheyennes. Some was for it an’ some was 


72 


LUCKY SHOT 


agin it, an’ the result was that the tribe split 
in two, half cornin’ down here whilst ’tother 
half stayed where they was. The Southern 
Cheyennes air about half a degree less ornery 
than the Northern Cheyennes, an’ we git 
along with them right good. They hate the 
Crows, an’ we hate the Crows, so we got some¬ 
thin’ in common, so to speak.” 

“ Look, look! ” Brad suddenly interrupted. 
“Up there on the top of the wall! It looks 
like—it certainly can’t be-” 

“ You mean them peacocks? ” his com¬ 
panion inquired calmly. “ Sure we got pea¬ 
cocks, a pair of ’em—Thunder Birds, the In¬ 
juns call ’em. Bent he brung ’em down two 
trips back to give sort of a fancy touch to 
the Fort. We did have a pair of bald- 
headed eagles, too, but some Injun buck, he 
tuck a fancy to make hisself a war bonnet out 
o’ the feathers an’ he killed ’em.” 

“ Wasn’t Mr. Bent angry? What did he 
do to the thief? ” 

“ Nothin’,” said the other deliberately. 
“For the very good reason that he didn’t git 




LUCKY SHOT 73 

no chance. The buck’s own tribe put him 
to death.” 

“ Killed him? Just for stealing a pair of 
eagles? ” 

“ Thar wasn’t no jist about it, sonny. 
Them eagles brung good luck to the Fort, an’ 
everybody knowed it. The Cheyennes was 
scared somethin’ would happen to ’em on ac¬ 
count of the birds bein’ killed, so they made 
an offerin’ of the thief to the Great Spirit.” 

“ How about the peacocks? I should 
think the Indians would covet them, too! ” 

The old man chuckled. “ Can’t git an In¬ 
jun within touchin’ distance o’ them birds. 
When they let out a screech—an’ you know 
what a gosh-awful noise they make!—every 
redskin on the place goes green under his 
paint and has pressin’ business elsewhere. 
Wish my old scalp was as safe as them pea¬ 
cocks’ tails air! ” 

Brad belatedly remembered his manners. 
“ My name is Brad Hundley and I’m from 
Missouri. I came down with-” 

“ Yeah, sonny, I know all about who you 





74 


LUCKY SHOT 


come with. I’m Bim Black, in case you got 
reason to call my name.” 

“ B-Bim Black? ” It seemed to the boy 
quite the most ludicrous name he had ever 
heard. 

“ Bim—short for 4 Bimelech,’ ” the owner 
of that cognomen answered gloomily. 
“ Ain’t it a sight—wishin’ an entitlemint like 
that on a pore innocent babe? Howsome- 
ever, it makes a nice short name when you 
come to think of it—Bim Black. Everybody 
from the Picketwire River to the Colorado 
knows Bim Black.” 

“ Well, Mr. Black-” 

The other let out a shrill cackle. 44 Mister ? 
I ain’t never been called Mister in all my 
born days. Say Bim . . . an’ I’ll come if 
I hear ye.” 

44 Bim, then. Don’t you have any snow 
down here? It’s December, and almost as 
warm as it was in October.” 

44 Not a great deal of snow. Plenty of 
cold weather, though. Reckon the season’s 
sort of backward this year to give ye chanct 



LUCKY SHOT 


75 


to look us over.” He grinned at Brad. 
“ Look at them dirty Injuns beginnin’ to slip 
through the gates. That means grub’s on, 
an’ we better be gittin’ in ourselves.” 

“ Can anybody that wants to come in for 
dinner? ” 

“ Just about. The camp cooks pile up a 
mess of buffler meat and set the kettle whar 
all hands can dip in. An’ thar’s always 
plenty of bread for everybody, seems like. 
You come along with me now an’ I’ll show 
you how Bent’s Fort feeds its folks.” 

Brad followed his new acquaintance and 
presently they were inside the court, the boy’s 
eyes stretched to their widest extent at the 
huge dinner party going on before him. No 
less than six iron pots stood on the gravel of 
the enclosure. Copper-colored hands and 
the hairy ones of the trappers alike were 
stretched to dip of their contents. Squaws 
and children waited humbly in the back¬ 
ground until the men had finished, then they, 
too, came forward to obtain their share. 

The Mexicans ate in a group of their own, 


76 


LUCKY SHOT 


Bim explaining to Brad that their food was 
so highly seasoned with red peppers that it 
was unpalatable to the others. 

After dinner the men withdrew to the walls, 
and propping themselves against the adobe 
support, filled and lighted their long¬ 
stemmed Indian pipes carved from stone 
and smoked peacefully. Occasionally they 
passed the pipe to a silently waiting Indian, 
who in turn passed it to his brothers until 
the tobacco was gone. 

Brad was presently summoned to his own 
meal in the dining-room; a meal which had 
certain delicacies of cooked rice and smoked 
buffalo tongue added to the stewed buffalo 
meat which composed the trappers’ fare. 
Charlotte and Andrew Green, Bent’s own 
servant, served the dinner. 

“ Been amusing yourself, Brad? ” Ned 
inquired, as the boy took his seat at the 
long table. “ Find somebody to show you 
about?” 

“ An old fellow named Bim Black.” 

Bent nodded, holding his cup for Andrew 


LUCKY SHOT 


77 


to refill. “ Bim’s a good guide—none better. 
Did you notice that three fingers are gone 
from his hand? ” 

“ Yes. He said an Indian arrow took 
them off.” 

“ Did he tell you how it happened ? ” And 
as Brad shook his head, Bent went on: “ Bless 
his old gizzard, he wouldn’t, at that! He lost 
those fingers by deliberately thrusting his 
hand between me and a Crow arrow. It was 
when we were building the Fort. I was lean¬ 
ing against the outside of the west wall, di¬ 
recting the Mexican laborers, and a band of 
Crows came galloping over the plains. Bim 
and I were the only men armed, and we used 
all the ammunition we had in repelling them. 
Did it, too, but as they rode away, one of them 
sent a final arrow at us. It passed under 
my arm and pinned my shirt to the wall so I 
couldn’t move. The redskins saw what had 
happened and with a whoop one of them sent 
another in my direction—straight at my 
heart. I ducked, but it would have got me 
if Bim hadn’t flung out his hand and caught 




78 


LUCKY SHOT 


the arrow through the fingers. They were 
so badly mutilated that I had to amputate 
them. You can guess the debt of gratitude 
I’ve felt to old Bim ever since.” 

Brad mused in silence over this story. The 
point that impressed him the most was that 
the old man had made no mention of his own 
heroic part in it. Brad owned to himself 
that if he had so bravely acquitted himself, 
the temptation to relate the incident to a 
stranger would have been very strong. He 
resolved to see more of the old fellow and per¬ 
suade him to tell some of the stories of which, 
Bent informed him, nobody had a better 
store than Bim Black. 

Brad spent the afternoon going through 
the rooms of the Fort, and marvelled at the 
space which the walls afforded for living 
quarters, warehouses, and stores, which were, 
to all intents and purposes, regular shops. 

He went to bed that night with his head 
a jumble of Indians and Mexicans, trappers 
and traders, the civilized if not actually lux¬ 
urious quarters of Bent’s rooms, in sharp con- 


LUCKY SHOT 


79 


trast to the savage life which went on about 
the Fort, Charlotte and Rosalie, Andrew 
Green and Bim Black, peacocks and mules, 
bear traps and Murphy wagons. 


CHAPTER SIX 


Hardly had Brad Hundley settled him¬ 
self in the room assigned to him when there 
occurred an incident which made him for the 
time being the hero of the Fort. It hap¬ 
pened in this wise. 

To the north of the Fort was a level prairie 
on which the horses and mules were turned 
each day to graze the short, dry grass. A 
herder, usually one of the Mexicans, was put 
in charge, and to insure his horse being al¬ 
ways available in case of attack, it was pick¬ 
eted on a rope near the herd. 

On this particular day the Mexican herder 
had been replaced by one of Bent’s favorite 
trappers, who had declared himself “ sick an’ 
tired of ’sociatin’ with so many durned In¬ 
juns,” and craved a day’s solitude in the open. 
Bent was always indulgent with his men, and 


80 


LUCKY SHOT 


81 


gave Jack Long permission to take Carlos’ 
place for as long as he cared to, Carlos assent¬ 
ing with all the enthusiasm which came from 
anticipation of long hours dozing within the 
Fort. 

“ Keep yore eye peeled for Comanches,” 
Bim Black warned the new herdsman. “ I 
smell ’em nearabout.” 

It was one of Bim’s favorite theories that 
he could not only smell hostile Indians ap¬ 
proaching but could name the tribe by the 
particular odor they gave off. Brad grinned 
at this theory, but to his surprise several of 
the trappers within the Fort supported the 
old man in it. 

“ Hope you do,” Long said in reply to the 
warning. “ I’d like to meet up with an In¬ 
jun I could shoot at without bein’ skeered 
I was pickin’ off one o’ Bent’s family-in-law. 
I shorely do git tired havin’ to be so mealy- 
mouthed to a dirty redskin.” Bent’s in¬ 
sistence on a friendly attitude toward the 
Indians within the walls was sometimes re¬ 
sented by his trappers. 


82 


LUCKY SHOT 


It proved that Long’s wish was to be real¬ 
ized to an extent which seemed likely to cost 
him his life. 

So far the season had been a mild one and 
grazing was still good, but the long summer 
had pushed the range farther and farther to 
the north. Also Long’s moody determina¬ 
tion to get as far as possible from the Indians 
had got the better of his good judgment. 

The horses were more than a mile a wav from 

%/ 

the Fort walls when the young herder’s ears 
were assailed by the dreaded Comanche yell, 
a cause for instant alarm. 

Over the prairies they galloped, some forty 
or fifty braves, and as they neared the 
startled horses, they spread in a fan-shaped 
band to close in upon them and drive them 
away. Jack cursed his own foolishness bit¬ 
terly as he saw that widening of the attackers. 
It was a trick which had been carefully taught 
them by the white man. Before the arrival 
of the hunters within the Fort, no Comanche, 
dull of wit and helpless off his horse, had 
known enough to employ this bit of technical 


LUCKY SHOT 


83 


warfare. As a rule, they rushed in a com¬ 
pact mass and were easy to handle by a few 
skilled marksmen whose first shots sent panic 
into the main body. 

“ Fellow, you shorely got your work laid 
out for you now,” Jack assured himself. 

He reached his horse in three great leaps 
and turned its head straight toward the ad¬ 
vancing Indians. The herd was well trained 
for the work it was now called on to do. At 
Jack’s imperative whistle, the lead horse 
wheeled in the direction of the Fort and the 
rest followed, Jack cutting in at the rear be¬ 
tween the herd and the rapidly advancing 
Indians to encourage his charges with voice 
and far-flung lasso. 

From the battlement the patrols saw the 
flight as it drew near and gave word to the 
rest. Soon the top of the walls was crowded 
with spectators, cheering and encouraging 
the young herder in his task. It was of no 
use to send a relief. The whole issue was 
one of speed. If Jack could bring the herd 
within firing distance of the Fort, the rifles 


84 


LUCKY SHOT 


from the loopholes and the cannon in the 
bastions would come to his defence. 

The Comanches knew this, and spurred 
their tough little ponies forward in a des¬ 
perate effort to overtake the herder. If he 
could be brought down from his saddle, the 
Indians could turn the herd northward and 
make off with their prize without hindrance 
from those within the Fort. 

On swept the horses with Jack at their 
heels. On came the painted Comanches, 
their terrifying yells adding to the excite¬ 
ment of the herd. It began to look as though 
Jack would make it, and the throng on the 
battlements went wild. 

“ Speed her up, Jack! ” 

“ Nearly there, old boy! ” 

“ Come along, Jack Long! ” 

And then . . . 

“ Aaaaahhhhhh! ” from a hundred throats 
in a cry of rage and grief. 

Jack had gone down under a Comanche 
arrow, better aimed than its fellows. For a 
moment his horse plunged blindly on, carry- 


LUCKY SHOT 


85 


ing the herd before him; then he stopped, 
turning his head over his shoulder and whin¬ 
nying questioningly. The herd wavered 
and a Comanche buck slid his mount in front 
of the bewildered animals and skillfully 
turned them back. 

A roar of rage went up again from the bat¬ 
tlements, a roar which died suddenly at the 
sight of another figure galloping from the 
west, a figure in whom Ned Hundley rec¬ 
ognized with mingled pride and terror his 
nephew Brad. 

Brad had been conducting some explora¬ 
tions of his own outside the Fort. Both Ned 
and Bent had warned him not to go out of 
sight of the walls, particularly when alone. 
The boy had fully intended to obey this in¬ 
junction. But the day had been crisply ex¬ 
hilarating, Greased Lightning had enjoyed 
three days’ rest in the corral and was brim¬ 
ful of energy, and before Brad realized what 
he was about, he had lost sight of the Fort 
altogether. 

The interminable flatness of the prairie 


86 


LUCKY SHOT 


fascinated him, used as he was to the beautiful 
rolling hills of his own State. The clear air 
deceived him as to distances. He had ridden 
on and on, and was roused from his absorption 
only by the sound of Comanche yells borne on 
the wind to his ears. He turned Lightning’s 
head toward home and rode at top speed. 

He had rounded the northwest corner of 
the Fort and was making for the horse-gate 
in the north wall, when he saw young Long 
go down with a Comanche arrow in his side. 
He saw, too, the slippery Indian who had 
succeeded in turning the herd back toward 
the plain. 

Brad’s rifle leaped to his shoulder. There 
was a crack, a puff of smoke, and the wily 
Comanche plunged forward over the neck 
of his pony. The wild cheers from the bat¬ 
tlements which greeted this shot encouraged 
the boy. 

But Brad’s troubles had just begun. En¬ 
couraged by their companion’s success in 
slipping between the walls and the herd, three 
other Indians swept forward and were al- 


LUCKY SHOT 


87 


most upon Brad before he saw them. Again 
his rifle spoke, and again an Indian wavered 
and fell from his horse. 

The Comanches, for all their evil reputa¬ 
tion, were cowards at heart. They never at¬ 
tacked save when their numbers overwhelmed 
by great odds their white enemies. The sud¬ 
den appearance of Brad and the success of 
his two shots frightened them badly. He 
had acquired by this time the regulation trap¬ 
per suit of buckskin, with deep fringes at arm 
and leg seams. The sureness of his aim and 
the similarity of his coloring to that of Car- 
son made the Comanches suspect him of being 
the man whom they held in almost super¬ 
stitious awe. The two who remained of the 
advance guard fled incontinently toward their 
companions. 

“ Brad! Brad Hundley! ” the cheers from 
the battlements rang out. 

“ Come on, Brad! ” It was Ned’s urgent 
voice. “ Don’t mind the herd—come on! ” 

It was then that Brad saw Jack Long, 
lying dead or unconscious, he could not tell 


88 


LUCKY SHOT 


which, in the very pathway of the retreating 
Comanches. Brad knew that this tribe, of 
all others, placed the greatest value on the 
white man’s scalp. He had heard that the 
Comanche would dare more to obtain this 
proof of his own bravery than he would for 
anything else. Brad had not the slightest 
doubt that the two who were rapidly bearing 
down toward the prone body of Jack would 
seize that body and rip the scalp from its head. 

A geyser of righteous indignation rose in 
Brad’s heart. The white man’s inherited 
hatred of Indian atrocities was suddenly his. 
He determined at any cost to save Long from 
this terrible fate. 

As he leveled his gun once more, he had time 
for the ironic realization that the very marks¬ 
manship which had sent him down here in an 
effort to keep the peace with the Sac Indians 
was now to be employed in warfare against 
another tribe of redskins. He set his teeth 
and determined that his skill should count— 
heavily! 

His finger pressed the trigger. There was 


LUCKY SHOT 


89 


the strong recoil of the heavy gun, and acrid 
smoke for a moment blotted out the scene 
before him. When it cleared, he had the satis¬ 
faction of seeing that only one of the enemy 
now galloped back to his tribe, and that with¬ 
out a glance at Long’s figure on the ground. 

The herd, thrown into a fresh panic by the 
smell of gunpowder, were running away from 
the Fort at top speed. Brad knew that he 
must intercept them and turn them back. It 
was then that Greased Lightning justified 
his name. Responding nobly to Brad’s 
shouted appeal, he stretched his legs in the 
long stride of his Kentucky forebears. It 
required but a few minutes of this pace to 
overtake the frightened horses and mules, 
and the intelligent Lightning swerved at the 
precise angle needed to turn their stampede 
into an equally rapid progress toward home. 

“Bully boy!” yelled Brad exultantly. 
“Now give me time, old man, to pick up 
Long! ” 

He pulled the quivering horse to a stop 
and bent tenderly above the fallen herder. 


90 


LUCKY SHOT 


To his infinite relief he was met by a grin— 
a strained and somewhat agonized grin, but 
nevertheless a grin. 

“ You shore kin shoot, boy,” the wounded 
man whispered. “ ’Twas almost wuth git- 
tin’ plugged through the side to see them 
Comanches git such a grand surprise.” 

44 Can you help yourself at all? ” Brad 
asked anxiously. 44 If the Indians see that 
I’ve stopped-” 

44 Don’t worry about them Comanches,” 
Long said with fine contempt. 44 They’re 
still a-streakin’ it across the prairie. They’ve 
had their little dose for the present.” 

4t Put your arm over my shoulders and let 
me lift you,” Brad urged. 44 Lightning will 
carry double.” 

44 No need, Brad,” a new voice spoke. Ned 
and William Bent sprang off their horses. 
44 We’ll take care of Jack now. Easy there, 
old man; don’t try to move.” 

From the north gate of the Fort riders 
were pouring. Some herded the mules and 
horses safely into the corral. Others put 




“You Shore Kin Shoot, Boy .”—Page 90 












LUCKY SHOT 


91 


Long on an improvised litter and bore him 
tenderly to a room off the court. 

Brad was surprised to see that Bent him¬ 
self set about dressing the wound in matter- 
of-fact fashion. 

“ Is he a doctor? ” he inquired of Ned. 

“ All the doctor we’ve ever had down here, 
and a blamed good one at that. I’ve seen 
him amputate legs, probe for bullets, nurse 
men through fevers and all sorts of illnesses. 
He’ll put Jack to rights if any one can.” 

The herder’s wound proved to be a serious 
but not a fatal one. Bent extracted the ar¬ 
row—an exquisitely painful process because 
of the backward turning barb at the tip— 
bathed the wound with clean water and band¬ 
aged it. After that there was nothing to do 
but give Nature a chance to repair the dam¬ 
age. This Bent was wise enough to do with¬ 
out the cupping and leeching so prevalent in 
the East. Also he violated the accepted rules 
of nursing by giving the patient all the cold 
water he wished to drink, a daring procedure 
which Brad watched anxiously. 




92 


LUCKY SHOT 


In a week s time Jack was able to sit up, 
and in a month he was as good as new. 

Long before then Brad, to his own great 
embarrassment, found himself a marked fig¬ 
ure at the Fort. The accuracy of his shots, 
his presence of mind and bravery were com¬ 
plimented again and again. 

Brad was sharp enough to realize that these 
qualities appeared remarkable to the men 
only because he was a “ greenhorn.” If the 
rescue had been effected by one of their own 
number, it would have been accepted as being 
all in the day’s work, and no further mention 
have been made of it. 

Nevertheless, Brad could not resist a boy¬ 
ish pride in his popularity, and his uncle’s 
hearty words of praise completed his satis¬ 
faction. 


CHAPTER SEVEN 


Life within the F ort soon settled down to 
a daily routine for Brad. The men rose at 
six these winter mornings, though he learned 
that in summer they were out of their beds 
at dawn. The moment the gates were 
opened, the Indians began to stalk in, silent 
and dignified, their association with the white 
men evidently a source of pride to them. 

For the most part they were the friendly 
Cheyennes and Utes, though occasionally a 
small party of Crows or Arapahoes came to 
exchange their peltries for coffee, gun¬ 
powder, and whiskey. 

Of the latter, they obtained very little, 
and that under protest from Bent. Brad 
was surprised to learn that the founder of the 
Fort had in the beginning made a strong ef¬ 
fort to eliminate whiskey from trade alto¬ 
gether, but was forced, by the unscrupulous 


93 


94 


LUCKY SHOT 


methods of other traders who offered poison¬ 
ous liquor at unfair prices, to yield to the de¬ 
mand for “ fire water.” 

He kept this commodity under the strictest 
control. To no Indian would he give more 
than a pint, and as it sold for from $3 to $5 
and a prime buffalo hide was worth but $1, no 
thirsty redskin was able to overindulge his 
longing. Moreover, Bent would allow no 
drinking among the Indians within the Fort. 
Each bottle of whiskey—and they were cu¬ 
riously shaped bottles of blue or green glass, 
specially made for the Fort, and a guarantee 
everywhere on the prairie of the purity of 
the liquor—must be carried back to the pur¬ 
chaser’s own dwelling-house before it was 
consumed. 

The wisdom of this course can readily be 
seen. With never less than five thousand 
Indians in the immediate vicinity and often 
the number reaching to twice that, an un¬ 
restrained use of the intoxicant would have 
resulted in attacks which would have wiped 
out the Fort and its residents. 



LUCKY SHOT 


95 


“ Ho they want to trade for coffee, too? ” 
Brad inquired of the clerk who told him these 
facts. 

“ Very little. It’s the trappers who want 
that. And the Mexicans. They’ll bring in 
their furs and the first thing they ask for— 
after tobacco, of course—is coffee. It sells 
for $3 a pint cup.” 

“ What do the Indians like best, next to 
whiskey? ” 

The clerk grinned. “ Sugar and abalone 
shells.” 

“ Shells? What on earth do they want 
with shells? ” 

“ Haven’t you seen them wearing them in 
their ears? Why, I’ve known a particularly 
fine shell to bring four buffalo hides in trade. 
The chiefs saw it into two oblong parts and 
then square the pieces. They polish the out¬ 
side, and make a hole in the small end to hang 
in their ears. The squaws get the bits that 
are left.” 

Brad liked to loiter about the store-rooms, 
watching the steady stream of Indians and 



96 


LUCKY SHOT 


trappers who brought in bundles of green 
furs to be appraised, weighed, and paid for in 
merchandise. 

One morning there was a great commotion 
at the gates and Brad was told that the Suh- 
tai and the Hill people, His-si-o-me-ta-ne, 
had returned from the foothills where they 
went annually for mule deer. 

“ Now we’ll fill our shelves with venison,” 
the clerk said with satisfaction. “ They’re 
the finest hunters of the lot, the Hill people. 
We buy much of our meat from them—what 
we don’t get from Carson and his trappers.” 

“ I should think you’d get all of your meat 
from the Indians,” Brad suggested. “ When 
they do nothing but hunt all the time, I 
should think they’d have a lot more than 
they needed for their own use.” 

The clerk made a gesture of repugnance. 
“Did you ever watch an Indian preparing 
meat for food? His methods aren’t—well, 
we don’t buy from any but the Hill people, 
and then we insist on having the carcass just 
as it fell. As for killing more than they need. 



LUCKY SHOT 


97 


you’d be surprised at how little they really 
are able to bring down with their arrows. 
This talk of the Indian’s being such a sure 
shot is all foolishness. Some of them, I grant 
you, are expert bowmen; but for the most 
part, they waste a good many arrows before 
they hit anything.” 

Brad learned also that the Cheyennes went 
every fall to the mountains to obtain lodge- 
pole pines and a kind of cedar used in making 
bows. He thought longingly of that an¬ 
nual trek and wondered if by any chance Ned 
would allow him to go with a friendly tribe. 

The opening of the Fort gates each morn¬ 
ing was a good deal like attending a daily 
circus, the boy thought. First through was 
a swarm of Indian dogs, furtive, cowardly 
creatures, their eyes rolling cautiously in the 
direction of the white man who was their im¬ 
placable enemy. The men had reason to dis¬ 
like these Indian dogs. They were alive with 
fleas, they invariably had mange, they stole 
food from the very hands of the packers and 
clerks. 


98 


LUCKY SHOT 


“ The old man—” this was the designation 
of the Fort’s owner by Brad’s friend, the 
clerk— “ has warned the Indians again and 
again not to let the dogs in. At first we tried 
killing the curs when the rule was disobeyed, 
but the pesky redskins dressed and ate their 
pets right in the court and it turned the men’s 
stomachs so that they refused to shoot any 
more of the dogs.” 

“ But don’t the Indians have to obey 
Bent? ” Brad’s voice betrayed his astonish¬ 
ment that any edict of the mighty William’s 
could be disregarded. 

“ The old man is wise enough to know what 
he can insist on and what he’d better kind of 
wink at,” was the answer. “ He’s had to 
make so many rules that are important that 
he goes easy on the unimportant ones. Any¬ 
way, the dogs keep coming, and nothing is 
done to stop ’em that I know of. I advise 
you to keep any property of yours that you 
specially care about inside your chest, or 
those dratted animals will carry it away some 
day.” 




LUCKY SHOT 


99 


On the heels of the dogs came their owners, 
the bucks in advance, women and children 
trailing after. The squaws strutted about 
in all the glory of their own beads and the bits 
of tinsel and tawdry finery they could beg 
from the white men. Tiny bells were sewn 
here and there in their clothes, and their 
wearers jingled them ceaselessly and 
proudly. 

After breakfast, a meal eaten by the Fort’s 
official residents in the dining-room and by 
the countless visitors and transients from the 
common pots in the court, an air of brisk busi¬ 
ness settled down upon the place. The fur 
presses were inspected, the bales weighed, 
tagged, and stored for the next trip to Inde¬ 
pendence. The carpenter and the black¬ 
smith were kept busy all day long, seeing that 
the wagons and other equipment were always 
in first-class condition. 

After dinner, which was but a repetition of 
breakfast, the men lounged about the corral, 
the leather-clad mountaineers busy with 
decks of euchre or seven-up, and in many 



LUCKY SHOT 


100 

I 

cases gambling away the pelts for which they 
had often risked their lives. 

There was one scene which never failed to 
bring a chuckle to Brad’s lips. 

“ What on earth are they doing? ” he de¬ 
manded of Ned, as the two came upon a group 
of Indian women and children, seated cross- 
legged on the ground. Each pair of jaws 
moved rhythmically, industriously. Brad 
could not understand it. 

“ They’re chewing skins to soften the 
leather,” Ned told him. He went on to ex¬ 
plain that the doeskin which Brad had ad¬ 
mired for its velvety softness and pliability 
had attained those qualities by being chewed, 
inch by inch and for hours at a time, by the 
squaws and children. 

The sight vastly amused the boy from Mis¬ 
souri. He would stand watching the strong 
teeth at work on strips and squares of the 
dried skin, marveling that human jaws could 
move so tirelessly. Now and then one of the 
children would look up to grin at the white 
man, but a hiss of warning from his mother 



LUCKY SHOT 101 

would make the endless grinding recom¬ 
mence. 

“ If you want to see real patience and skill, 
you ought to watch the manufacture of a 
Cheyenne war bonnet,” Ned told him. 
“ Ever examine one closely? Come into the 
store-room and I’ll show you a beauty. It 
was given Bent by Old Tobacco, a chief that 
got his name because of his liking for the 
stuff.” 

“ Oh, I know Old Tobacco,” Brad ex¬ 
claimed. “ He’s that harmless old fellow 
who hangs around, begging bits of ‘ chaw ’ 
from everybody he can get to listen to him.” 

Ned nodded, and the two crossed the court, 
and soon Brad was holding, perched on his 
fist, the gorgeous headdress of a Cheyenne 
chief. 

“ The foundation is, you see, the softest 
and finest strips of doeskin sewed together to 
form a cap. Then come the eagle feathers, 
fastened not only to the foundation but all 
down the long streamers that fall over the 
back. Do you see how cunningly those tufts 


102 LUCKY SHOT 

of white rabbit fur have been cemented to the 
middle of the feathers, giving a more orna¬ 
mental effect ? And look at the beadwork on 
the front—isn’t it wonderful? ” 

“ Do you suppose Indians can count? ” 
Brad inquired. “ They must—see! Here 
are four white beads, ten red, five blue on one 
side, and exactly the same number on the 
other. And what are these funny round 
things quilted among the beads? ” 

“ Porcupine quills, dyed with vegetable 
juices. Think of the infinite patience it took 
to make this bonnet! I’ve heard that a squaw 
sometimes spends five years on one war bon¬ 
net for her man.” 

“ They look frail, but I suppose they must 
be strong, to be used on the warpath.” 

“ You bet they’re strong,” the other said 
vigorously. “ That one you’re holding was 
made for Old Tobacco in his youth, and he’s 
well into his seventies now. What a tale it 
could tell of forays and massacres and fights 
with the Crows and Sioux, of scalps collected 
and booty taken! ” 




LUCKY SHOT 


103 


“ Ned, I want one of these bonnets,” Brad 
said abruptly. “ I want to own one—to take 
it home when I go. Do you suppose I could 
buy one? ” 

“ Buy? No! No Indian will sell his war 
bonnet, however attractive an offer is made 
for it.” 

“ How do you get them, then? ” 

44 Two ways. One is to kill the wearer in 
battle and help yourself to his headgear. I 
don’t suppose that appeals to you? The 
other is to perform some unusual service to a 
chief which he may—only may , mind you! 
reward by the gift of one of his treasured bon¬ 
nets. That’s how Bent came by this one. 
He saved Old Tobacco from the Iviowas a 
few years back, and the old fellow has been 
his friend ever since.” 

“ Is that why he shakes hands with Bent 
every morning? ” 

“ Yes, he never neglects that little cere¬ 
mony. He learned it on his first visit to the 
Fort and he’s proud as Punch over it. He’s 
rather a pet with the men here. He rides 




104 


LUCKY SHOT 


out on the trail to meet every incoming train, 
and the trappers are always glad to see him, 
because they know they’re practically home 
when his pony appears over the hill. They 
always give him a bit of tobacco for his pains.” 

Brad was to recall this conversation months 
later when tragedy overtook Old Tobacco, 
and his death was brought about by his very 
trust in his white friends. 

Night closed down early at the Fort but it 
did not put a stop to the activities within. 
Bent encouraged whatever festivity was 
possible during the long winter. Fires burned 
both in the corral and in the jjatioj and until 
cold weather prevented, there were dancing 
and singing in both places until a late hour. 

Charlotte and Rosalie were indeed the 
belles of these dances. They were impor¬ 
tuned as partners by both white men and 
Mexicans. It was a ludicrous sight to see 
Charlotte, her ample skirts held high, jigging 
opposite a coffee-colored gallant in sugar- 
loaf hat and crimson-sashed waist who under¬ 
stood not a word of his partner’s shouted in- 


LUCKY SHOT 


105 


structions, but followed with lithe graee her 
every motion. 

“ Get your mouth-harp out,” Ned said one 
evening. “ You haven’t played it for a long 
time.” 

“ There’s been too much to see and do,” 
Brad answered but he went obediently to his 
room and brought forth the harmonica. 

Its strains were hailed with instant delight. 
Men crowded about the boy, asking for this 
tune, whistling that to see if he could play it. 
The Mexicans with their quick ear for music, 
soon learned every song in his modest reper¬ 
toire. 

One dolorous melody proved a special 
favorite. 

She plucked me a flower with her lily-white hand, 

A flow-er that faded and died. 

And soon the fair loveliness that I adored, 

Had drifted away on the tide. 

Oh, sigh for sweet Mary, 

So young and so fair, 

A blossom the angels 
In heaven will wear! 


106 


LUCKY SHOT 


“ Jiggery Jones ” proved as popular in the 
Fort as it had been along the trail. Brad 
blessed the impulse which had made him bring 
along his harmonica. 

Brad found the number of children within 
the Fort appalling. Even after the first 
snow flew, they ran about entirely naked, 
their copper-colored or tanned little bodies 
sliding between the hurrying men with prac¬ 
tised ease. They seldom cried, and they 
seemed to possess from the very cradle an 
ability to look after themselves. Several 
times Brad was horrified to see one of these 
infants toddle out through the gates where 
coyotes perpetually loped about or sat on 
their haunches awaiting a chance bit of offal 
flung from within. 

“ They’ll certainly be carried off,” he said 
one day, indignantly restoring to its mother 
one of these straying babes. 

The slatternly half-breed women and the 
Mexicans took far less care of their offspring 
than did the full-blood squaws, who some¬ 
times carried their children, even after they 


LUCKY SHOT 


107 


were three years old, in the papoose case slung 
between their shoulders. 

“ Have you seen the ice-house yet? ” Ned 
inquired one morning. “ Haven’t? Then 
you’ve missed one of the sights of the Fort. 
Come along. I’ll—or no! I’ll ask Bill 
Bent if I can’t show you a little excitement 
on the way.” 

He sought out the Fort’s owner, ex¬ 
changed a few words with him and evidently 
received permission to do what he wished, for 
Brad saw the trader’s head nod assentingly. 

Ned led the wondering boy to the south¬ 
east bastion and entered the small room be¬ 
neath it. To all appearances, it was nothing 
more than a round enclosure, filled with baled 
hides at this season of the year when the pelts 
were coming in in great numbers. Ned pro¬ 
duced a long, wide-bladed knife and with this 
instrument he proceeded to pry loose several 
of the adobe blocks which made the wall. To 
Brad’s amazement, a narrow passage was 
disclosed. 

“ You’ll have to crawl,” Ned directed. 



108 


LUCKY SHOT 


“ Down on your hands and knees, boy, and 
see how you’d have to get to your food if the 
Fort were surrounded.” 

It was dark and breathless in the narrow 
passage, and more than once Brad wished that 
he had satisfied himself by a glance at the tun¬ 
nel and then gone openly to the ice-house 
from the outside. In the course of time, 
however, Ned, who was in front of him, came 
to a stop and again plied his broad-bladed 
knife. This time the loose adobe formed an 
entrance to a large cave where Brad, after 
brushing the dust of the passage from his 
eyes, was able to see by the light of the candle 
Ned lighted, great carcasses hung about, 
sides of bacon and smoked hams, hundreds of 
dressed rabbits and prairie chickens laid in 
rows on shelves which had been built along 
the rows. The cave was of a temperature 
many degrees below the sharp December air 
outside. It bordered on the river, and Ned 
explained that when the water froze, great 
blocks of ice were hewn from it and piled into 
the cave. 


LUCKY SHOT 


109 


Here was meat, Brad thought, to feed an 
army, yet Ned told him that the supply was 
low and that Carson and his men were ex¬ 
pected every day now with the proceeds of 
their winter hunt. 

“ Over here are the delicacies,” Ned 
pointed out. “ Buffalo tongues, rumps, and 
cleaned intestines. There’s no tame beef, 
you see, and not a great deal of pork. Bent 
tried to keep a herd of cows, but he couldn’t 
get anybody to milk ’em.” 

“Not get anybody? ” Brad’s surprise was 
great. “ With a hundred men hanging 
about all the time, to say nothing of all the 
Indians— ” 

“ Ever see an Indian milk a cow? No, 
I’ll bet you didn’t—nor ever will. Occasion¬ 
ally a squaw can be induced to do it, especially 
if she has a baby that needs to be fed, but a 
buck, never. And the trappers are as igno¬ 
rant as children about the care of cattle. They 
won’t learn, either—think it’s beneath their 
dignity to do what they call farmer work. 
Bent had to butcher nearly all his cows finally, 





110 


LUCKY SHOT 


and except for a couple he keeps in the corral 
and that Charlotte milks, the Fort gets along 
without milk.” 

“ Or butter,” said Brad wryly. The lack 
of the fresh, sweet butter he had enjoyed in 
such abundance at home was a real depriva¬ 
tion to him. 

“ Or butter. The men don’t mind. What 
they do crave, and get mighty little of, is 
sweetening in any form. Once in a while 
Charlotte and Andrew Green organize a 
candy pull, and the whole lot, trappers, In¬ 
dians, Mexicans, and all, act like a lot of chil¬ 
dren over a holiday treat. Well, Brad, seen 
enough? Notice how cleverly this meat 
house is arranged? Its only opening—be¬ 
sides the tunnel, which mighty few know 
about—is toward the river, and with one man, 
armed and with plenty of ammunition, it 
could be defended for an hour against a 
whole tribe of Indians.” 

“ Yes, but he might not have his gun,” 
Brad objected. “ Or his ammunition might 
give out.” • 



LUCKY SHOT 


111 


Ned smiled and, without speaking, indi¬ 
cated a cask of powder in the cave. 

“ Plenty there to repel an invasion! Bent 
would look out for that.” 

44 But isn’t it risky to leave all that powder 
in there—to say nothing of the meat ? Don’t 
the Indians try to creep in here and steal the 
stuff during the night? ” 

44 Open the door and look out,” Ned bade 
him. 

Brad swung open the heavy door a trifle 
and at once his eye fell upon a sentry pacing 
back and forth between the river and the ice¬ 
house. 

44 Night and day that space is patrolled, 
and the Indians never know whether the sen¬ 
try is alone or has five or six men hiding in 
the ice-house behind him. Bent purposely 
set traps for them in the beginning until he 
taught the Indians that this territory was be¬ 
yond all hope of surprise.” 

44 There doesn’t seem to be a single thing 
he’s overlooked,” the boy observed thought¬ 
fully. 44 It seems wonderful that he could 



112 


LUCKY SHOT 


think it all out so carefully and keep his Fort 
safe down here so long.” 

“ He had to think it out,” was the signifi¬ 
cant answer. “ There’d be nobody to come 
to his rescue if the Fort were rushed. You 
learned in school that an island is a small body 
of land completely surrounded by water. 
Well, Bent’s Fort is a small body of whites 
completely surrounded by Indians. Half¬ 
way out into that river Mexican territory be¬ 
gins, and the Indians over there, to say noth¬ 
ing of the Mexicans themselves, are forever 
on the watch to surprise the Fort. The 
longer you stay down here, Brad, the more 
you’ll admire William Bent! ” 

His words were prophetic, for every week 
of the Missouri visitor’s, stay brought fresh 
evidence of the wisdom and farsightedness of 
the founder of the Fort. 


CHAPTER EIGHT 


It was time for Kit Carson and his men to 
return from the first official hunt he was mak¬ 
ing for the Fort. The famous scout had 
spent varying lengths of time with Bent since 
he had helped construct the Fort, but now he 
had entered upon a contract with him to sup¬ 
ply such meat as would be needed for the men 
who lived within the adobe walls. 

“ Two hunts a year’ll do it,” Bim Black 
opined. “ Carson knows where the huffier 
air, better’n ary man alive.” 

“ What does he do between hunts? ” Brad 
asked, his devouring curiosity concerning 
Carson forever suggesting new questions. 

“ Traps beaver. They cain’t no one beat 
Carson, come to beaver-trapping. I well 
recollict one time on the Wisdom River when 
Carson dammed a two-foot channel and made 
a pond ten mile wide. We let it stay a season, 


113 


114 


LUCKY SHOT 


and next year we took nigh on to three thou¬ 
sand beaver out o’ that thar pond. We kept 
the Blackfeet squaws busy dressin’ them 
skins, an’ paid ’em with the carcasses of the 
animals.” 

“ And sugar,” put in a grizzled trapper 
who lounged near by, listening to Bim’s tales. 
“ A Blackfeet squaw’ll sell her soul—always 
supposin’ she’s got one—for a pinch o’ brown 
sugar.” 

Brad had convincing proof of this hunger 
for sweets on the night of Christmas Eve 
when a great candy-pull took place within 
the Fort. 

All day the big black kettles had been kept 
aboil in the open court, their pungent fumes 
drawing so large a crowd of wistful onlookers 
that the portly Charlotte was hard put to it 
to make her way through them to stir the 
candy. The word had gone forth among the 
Cheyennes that sorghum was boiling, and so 
many visitors crowded in through the gates 
that at last Bent was obliged to order them 
closed and no more guests admitted. 



LUCKY SHOT 


115 


Supper was a hurried meal, and Brad was 
amused to see that most of the trappers dis¬ 
appeared for a time, to return with hair 
slicked down with “ bar’s grease,” and their 
finest doeskin jackets on in honor of the occa¬ 
sion. 

As the dark sweetening boiled low in the 
kettles, a fresh supply was added, so that by 
eight o’clock the enormous pots were full to 
the brim with candy ready to be pulled. 
Charlotte presided over one of them, Andrew 
Green another, and Bosalie, the carpenter’s 
wife, over the third. At Charlotte’s solemnly 
given dictum, the pots were lifted from the 
fire and the dishing-out process begun. 

Every man, woman, and child was pro¬ 
vided with his own container. The white 
men used their deep tin plates, and howled 
with pain as the hot molasses made the 
dish uncomfortable to hold. The Indians 
brought pottery vessels, some of which would 
easily have held a gallon. Charlotte gave no 
heed to the size of the dish. Impartially she 
dipped up two great ladlefuls, and whether 


116 


LUCKY SHOT 


they were nearly lost in the depths of the dish 
or ran over its shallow sides, it was all one 
to her. 

Pandemonium reigned in the courtyard. 
Men shoved forward good-naturedly, In¬ 
dians stolidly held their own places, squaws 
chattered and shrieked for their share. The 
children and dogs were everywhere, and Brad 
came to the rescue of more than one bronze 
mite whose dish had been snatched from him 
by the jaws of a hungry dog. It was no con¬ 
solation to the victim that the robber yelped 
with pain as the hot candy burned his tongue. 
The papoose yelled, too, and Brad hastened 
to beg a fresh supply from Charlotte, whose 
special favorite he was by now. 

For the most part, the white men did not 
bother to pull their candy. They waited un¬ 
til it was cool enough to handle and then de¬ 
voured it as it was. The Mexicans and In¬ 
dians, however, pulled it deftly, and soon long 
ropes of yellowish taffy were ready for the 
eating. 

“ Shame on you, Bim,” Brad reproached 


LUCKY SHOT 


117 


the veteran as he came upon him earnestly 
addressing himself to his share. “ Why 
don’t you pull yours—show ’em how it’s 
done? ” 

Bim’s answer came through a mass of the 
soft candy. “ Feller, the only thing that’s 
more unsartain than life down here at the 
Fort is any kind o’ sweetenin’. If you want 
to keep yores, you got to eat it pronto, and 
that’s gospel truth. If you tarry—thar! 
what’d I tell you? ” 

Brad made an ineffective clutch after his 
own dish, but the young Indian boy who had 
snatched it ran away laughing. Charlotte 
had seen the theft and came up, towering with 
wrath. 

“ Dem Injuns steal ebert’ing they git hands 
on,” she said, scowling so fiercely at a mag¬ 
nificently attired brave who stood grinning 
near by that he slunk away abashed. “ Come 
ober hyar, Marse Brad, an’ Charlotte see you 
gits yo’ share.” 

“ Like it, Brad? ” Bent asked, stopping be¬ 
fore the boy. 




118 


LUCKY SHOT 


“ I should think so! ” said the boy eagerly. 
“ I didn’t know how hungry I was for some¬ 
thing sweet until I got my teeth in this.” 

Soon a blissful silence descended upon the 
court. Little family groups withdrew with 
their booty and faces were smeared to the ears 
with the delectable confection. The most 
dignified of the chiefs gravely licked each 
copper-hued finger in an effort to capture the 
last elusive taste. 

When the kettles were emptied, a swarm 
of young Indian lads descended upon them, 
and a few greedy spirits actually crawled in¬ 
side, licking vigorously as they progressed. 
There was plenty for all, however, and when 
bedtime came more than three hundred 
sticky, happy Christmas celebrants retired, 
blissfully replete with molasses candy. 

There were other recognitions of the holi¬ 
day, Brad discovered the next morning. 

“ How’s your voice to-day? ” Ned inquired 
of his nephew at breakfast. “ I hope you got 
it well sweetened last night, for we’re going 
to need it to-day.” 


LUCKY SHOT 


119 


“ What for? ” Brad demanded curiously. 

“ Singing. It’s Christmas, boy! We’re 
going to have a service this morning.” 

“ A Christmas service—down here? ” 

“ Why not—down here? All the more, 
down here, it seems to me. We have to show 
the Indians and the Mexicans how we cele¬ 
brate our holidays.” 

“ The Mexicans hold a celebration of their 
own,” Bent put in. “ You must be sure to 
see that, too.” 

By ten o’clock, snow was falling too heavily 
to permit of an open-air service, but Bent 
herded everybody into the long clerks’ room 
at the west end of the Fort. There were no 
seats, but many sat cross-legged on the floor, 
while a fringe of others stood about the walls. 

To Brad’s vast astonishment, it was Ned 
who took charge of the service. He mounted 
a box at one end of the room and motioned 
the bugler to signal for silence. That the 
company was well used to this celebration 
was evident by the immediate and respectful 
attention. 




120 


LUCKY SHOT 


“ Everybody sing! ” said Ned. “ All to¬ 
gether now! 

“ 4 O come, all ye faithful, 

Joyful and triumphant—’ ” 

The volume of sound which was suddenly 
loosed into that adobe-walled room was 
astounding. The trappers joined in lustily, 
evidently perfectly familiar with both words 
and music. The Mexicans gave clear and 
musical support to the hymn. The Indians 
for the most part contented themselves with a 
series of syncopated grunts, save as now and 
then a buck would grow excited by the rap¬ 
idly increasing sounds and let out a shrill 
whoop of approval or dissent, it was difficult 
to tell which. 

An effort had been made to exclude the 
dogs, but a few of them had slipped in, and 
they threw back their heads and howled in 
sympathy. Their friends outside took up 
the chorus and the noise was deafening. 

At first Brad shook with laughter at the 
Bent’s Fort idea of a Christmas hymn; then 



LUCKY SHOT 


121 


he became aware, in a boy’s vague but none 
the less accurate manner of assimilating im¬ 
pressions, of the thrilling power of it all: 
bearded mountaineers singing words they had 
learned in their youth; Mexicans caroling a 
song taught them by their own black-robed 
priests; Indians courteously, if unmusically, 
joining their voices in praise of the white 
man’s Great Spirit; even the flea-ridden curs 
involuntarily increasing what was, after all, 
the instinctive homage every living thing pays 
to the Maker of heaven and earth. 

The hymn was followed by a brief story of 
the nativity, told by Bent himself. He told 
it in English, but translated it as he went 
along into Spanish and Indian. Deep nods 
of recognition marked each point of the story. 
Evidently this yearly narrative lingered in 
the minds of the audience; perhaps it was dis¬ 
cussed in the interval between. 

After Bent’s contribution, the bugle 
sounded once more and the company sang 
“ The Star Spangled Banner.” The high 
notes proved too much for the Indians, but 


122 LUCKY SHOT 

the clear voices of the Mexicans soared above 
those of the Americans, and the trappers were 
forced to own that the “ furreners,” as they 
designated the men beyond the border, made 
of the national anthem a thing of tonal 
beauty. 

At the end of the singing, the cannon out¬ 
side the Fort was discharged in the Christmas 
salute, and the congregation: dogs, babies, 
Indians, Mexicans, and trappers, was dis¬ 
missed. 

Dinner was a feast. Charlotte and An¬ 
drew Green, with their Mexican helpers, had 
been busy for days in its preparation. Great 
roasts of buffalo meat and venison were 
flanked by pies whose flaky crusts covered 
a score of tender prairie chicken. Wild tur¬ 
keys brought in by the most expert of the 
hunters were roasted and stuffed with onion- 
seasoned breadcrumbs. 

There were stacks of “ Bent’s biscuit,” that 
culinary invention of William Bent’s during 
a season of famine which had later become so 
popular that Charlotte and Andrew spent 


LUCKY SHOT 


123 


their spare time in its manufacture for trade 
as the spring train went forth to Independ¬ 
ence. 

And there were—pumpkin pies! Golden, 
melting, spicily pungent pumpkin pies such 
as only dusky Charlotte could make. Brad 
had seen the great piles of yellow fruit which 
Bent obtained each year from a rancher in 
Mexico. The sweetening was molasses, and 
the spices were more carefully measured than 
gold dust would have been, but surely, Brad 
thought, as he passed his plate for a third 
luscious quarter, no food was ever made 
which was more thoroughly satisfying to a 
hungry boy than a Bent’s Fort pumpkin pie! 

“ Too bad Kit didn’t get here for this,” 
Bent remarked. “ He’s overdue.” 

Scarcely were the words out of his mouth 
than a tremendous uproar at the east gates 
made him spring up and slap his buckskinned 
hip. 

“ There he is now! There’s old Kit, a little 
late for dinner, but come to spend Christmas 
with us, as he promised! ” 



124 


LUCKY SHOT 


Everybody streamed out into the court¬ 
yard and crowded about the returning scout 
and his hunters. Twenty of them had ac¬ 
companied him on this trip and they stood 
about, grinning at the vociferous welcome 
they were receiving. Behind them was a 
string of pack ponies, heavily laden with meat 
which was cleaned and dressed in readiness 
for the ice-house. 

“ Here I am, Bill,” Kit greeted his em¬ 
ployer. “ Said I’d be here for Christmas, 
and here I am. Got any grub left? If 
Charlotte ain’t saved me a punkin pie, I 
shore don’t aim to give her the fofurraw I 
brought her all the way from the ’Rapahoe 
winter camp! ” 



CHAPTER NINE 

Well, young feller, what do you think 
of the Fort? ” Carson turned away from 
his shaving-mirror and lathered his chin with 
a brush whose strange appearance caught 
Brad’s eyes. “ Looking at my rope brush, 
are you? ” The scout chuckled and held it 
out for Brad to see. It was made of a stout 
bit of hempen rope, one end frayed to the 
depth of an inch and bound by threads to 
form the “ brush.” A large knot in the other 
end served as handle.* “ Been a mighty use¬ 

ful bit of furniture, I’m here to tell you.” 

Brad asked a question which had been on 
his lips many times since the Carson men ar¬ 
rived at the Fort. 

“ Why is it that you and all your hunters 

* This brush may be seen to-day in the Historical Museum 
at Denver, along with many articles of Carson’s attire, and a 
block of the wool-mixed adobe from the ruins of Bent’s Fort. 

125 


126 


LUCKY SHOT 


shave nearly every day, and the other trap¬ 
pers grow beards? I should think it would 
be an awful lot of trouble to you! ” 

“ Trouble? I should say it is trouble/’ 
Kit grumbled. “ But there’s a reason—a 
mighty good reason for it, too. It’s one of 
Bill Bent’s little ways of keeping friends with 
the Indians. They don’t like beards, you 
know. Ever see a bearded Injun? So Bent 
makes his own trappers go clean-shaven, and 
that helps smooth the way for the fur-tradin’; 
savvy? ” 

Brad savvied, his admiration daily grow¬ 
ing for the man whose diplomacy had made 
the Fort, set in the very heart of hostile In¬ 
dian country, not only a place of safety for 
the white man, but a council ground for the 
redskins themselves. 

“ How’d you like the Fort, I was askin’ 
you,” Carson said again, dipping his rope 
brush in the mug of soft soap he had begged 
from Charlotte. “ Come up to your expec¬ 
tations, does it? ” 

“ It sure does,” Brad replied with boyish 



LUCKY SHOT 


127 


enthusiasm. “ Only one thing-” He 

paused, not quite daring to put his wish into 
words. 

“ Spit it out, kid,” Carson advised kindly. 
“ I kinda think I know what it is you want to 
say, too. You’re itchin’ and dyin’ to go out 
on a huffier hunt for yourself, ain’t that it? ” 
“ That’s it! ” Brad’s eagerness overrode 
his hesitation. “ It’s mighty nice here at the 
Fort—exciting, too, in a way—but it’s kind 
of hard, seeing the hunting parties set out day 
after day and come in again with deer and 
buffalo and bear, and me not getting half a 
mile away from the gates! ” 

“ What’s the matter with Ned Hundley? ” 
Carson was scraping his chin with a well- 
sharpened hunting knife. “ He don’t usu¬ 
ally sit around the fire all winter, counting 
bales and figuring profits. Ain’t he going 
out before spring? ” 

Brad answered disconsolately. “ He’s 
going over into Mexico for Mr. Bent, and 
they won’t hear of my going along. I reckon 
I could give as good an account of myself as 





128 


LUCKY SHOT 


anybody,” Brad complained. “ I’m six¬ 
teen, I can shoot, I know which Indians are 
hostile and which aren’t—” 

“ Ho you, now? ” Carson drawled. 
“ S’pose you tell me. Go on—speak your 
piece like a good little boy.” 

The twinkle in his eye took the sting from 
his obvious doubt of Brad’s newly acquired 
knowledge. 

“ The Cheyennes are always friendly to 
the white man. They’ve never killed any of 
them except by accident. The Crows and 
Sioux are friendly when they have a peace 
treaty with the Cheyennes, hostile if they 
haven’t. The Arapahoes—they’re the best 
Indians of all, I think. Their voices are 
clear, not thick and choky like the Kiowas 
and the Osages. The Comanches—” 

Carson had been holding his left cheek taut 
for the scrape of his knife. Now he let it go 
and spoke explosively. 

“ Nice, are they ? The ’Rapahoes? What 
blamed mulligan’s been filling you up with 
lies like that ? The ’Rapahoes are devils, with 






LUCKY SHOT 


129 


horns and all, complete. The most ornery, 
treacherous devils that ever come down from 
the north to powwow in pretended peace. 
Give me six Kiowas to fight any time in place 
of one dod-gasted Tlapahoe! Even the 
Pawnees—” 

“ Oh, I know the Pawnees are always un¬ 
friendly,” Brad put in eagerly. 

Carson smiled his slow, one-sided smile. 
“ Unfriendly—is that what you call it? 
That’s a purty mild word for the Pawnees. 
Why, kid, not a man alive can remember a 
peace with the Pawnees. They’re a wild, 
fightin’, killin’, reasonless set of locoed bob¬ 
cats, and my advice to anybody that gits in 
reach of ’em is to git out again as quick and 
far as possible! ” 

“ Comanches are pretty bad, too! ” Brad 
spoke out of his still vivid memory of an en¬ 
counter with that tribe. 

Carson snapped his fingers to show his con¬ 
tempt for the Comanches. 

“ Fat, bow-legged rascals, never off their 
horses long enough to know what their feet 




130 


LUCKY SHOT 


was meant for. They love to play tricks on 
each other and make jokes, and they’re the 
worst horse-thieves this side of the Platte. ... 
I’ll tell you another reason why the Pawnees 
are bad,” he harked back. “ They’re the 
only tribe that fights with guns altogether, 
now. ’Rapahoes stick to their lances and ar¬ 
rows, and Kiowas and Comanches use a few 
guns—all they can get. But somehow or 
other, spite o’ Bent’s trying to keep any In¬ 
jun from getting a white man’s gun, the 
Pawnees always have all the rifles and am¬ 
munition they want. An’ a hell-raisin’ 
Pawnee, with a good horse under him and a 
United States rifle in his hand is nothing safe 
to monkey with, young Brad. You can put 
that in your clay pipe and smoke on it a long 
time, and still not git the true flavor of it till 
you see some of them red fiends in action.” 

“ How about the Apaches? ” 

“ Lousy, and great on yelling fit to scare 
the daylights out of you, but yellow-livered 
cowards if you rush ’em hard,” was the scorn¬ 
ful verdict of the great Indian fighter. 



LUCKY SHOT 


131 


“ Well, now about this hunting trip you crave 
to take. You know that kid I got with me— 
Blue, I call him? ” 

“ Yes, I know Blue. He was herder for 
the cavvy in the train I came down with,” 
Brad said eagerly. 44 He and I have been 
having a great chin over his adventures on the 
trail with you.” Brad’s voice grew suddenly 
wistful. The fifteen-year-old lad who had 
left Captain Blunt’s employ to work for Car- 
son had poured out many a tale of his life at 
Taos since the two boys had parted. Brad 
had liked him from the first. 

44 Pretty promisin’ kid,” Kit commented. 
44 I took him along on this last hunting trip 
and he give a good account of himself for a 
greenhorn. I’m thinking of sending him out 
with a couple of men to do a little beaver 
trapping for me. Nothing dangerous, ex¬ 
cept as any winter trip near the moun¬ 
tains—” 

44 The mountains! ” cried Brad longingly. 
44 Oh, Mr. Carson—well, Kit, then—couldn’t 
I go with him? It just seems to me I can’t 






132 LUCKY SHOT 

be this close to the mountains and not see them 
before I go back to St. Joseph! ” 

“ I was kind of working around to that,” 
the other admitted. “ It’ll be cold, you 
know,” he warned the excited boy. “ You’ll 
half freeze most nights. And the grub is 
about what you make it, huntin’. You’ll 
have to shoot nearly everything you eat, 
’cause you’ll have to travel light. It ain’t no 
great shucks of a trip I’m planning, but still 
if you’d like to go—” 

There could be no question of Brad’s want¬ 
ing to go. His eyes were ablaze with excite¬ 
ment, he could hardly refrain from wringing 
Carson’s hand in sheer gratitude. The 
scout’s eyes twinkled, and he made short work 
of finishing his toilet by brushing his hair 
with a wooden-backed brush brought from 
“ the States.” 

“ Come on down, then, and we’ll see what 
Bill Bent has to say about it.” 

“ Ned, you mean, don’t you? It’ll be 
Ned’s permission I’ll have to get, I suppose.” 

Carson, halfway down the adobe steps, 



LUCKY SHOT 133 

paused and looked at the other sharply over 
his shoulder. 

“ No, son, I don’t mean Ned Hundley. I 
mean Bill Bent, like I said. This is his Fort, 
and he’s boss here, first, last, an’ all the time. 
What he says goes, and don’t you never for¬ 
get it. He ain’t run this place practically 
single-handed for the last three years—the 
St. Vrains being north most of the time and 
his own brothers otherwise occupied—with¬ 
out learnin’ that there can’t be but one boss 
of an outfit, whether it’s an army, a trappin’ 
trip, a city, or a fort. If he says you’re to go 
with Blue to the mountains, go you will—and 
Ned Hundley knows a heap better than to 
dispute it. If he says you ain’t to go, you 
might as well wipe yore tears with your 
pocket handkerchief, for nothin’ will budge 
him.” 

Thus warned, Brad awaited in breathless 
suspense the decision of the Fort’s owner. 
Carson neither pleaded his cause nor mini¬ 
mized the danger of the expedition. He 
simply said: 





134 


LUCKY SHOT 


“ Bill, I’m sending that kid I’m trainin’ 
out on a trip after beaver by hisself. That 
is, he’s taking only a couple of half-breeds 
with him, and he’s in command. Brad here 
thinks it’d do his constitution a heap of good 
to go along; seems to crave a whiff of moun¬ 
tain air after smellin’ your Mexican cook-pots 
for so long. How about it? ” 

“ What’s the idea, Kit? Testing the boy 
out? ” 

“ Which boy? ” Carson grinned. 

“ Yours. We’ve had pretty convincing 
proof here that Brad’s all right,” Bent said 
kindly, making the boy’s heart bound high 
with pleasure. 

Bent asked a few questions: where was 
Blue bound, how long would the expedition 
last, etc. Brad observed that he did not in¬ 
quire into Blue’s fitness for such a trip. Evi¬ 
dently he took it for granted that if Carson 
was sending him, Carson believed in his capa¬ 
bilities. 

At the short, succinct answers he received, 
Bill Bent nodded. 


LUCKY SHOT 


135 


44 Brad’s a good shot,” he said. “ Soft, 
just now, of course, because he’s been cooped 
up here for over a month; but he’ll do.” 
Without further comment he turned away 
and Brad was in doubt as to whether or not 
he had received permission to go on the trip. 
Carson put an immediate end to his doubts 
by saying: 

44 Go hunt up the kid and tell him you’re 
signed on. He’ll know what you ought to 
take. I suppose you’ll ride your own 
horse? ” 

44 Greased Lightning? Why, Kit, that 
horse is—” 

44 All right.” The subject of Lightning’s 
perfections was dismissed curtly. 

Brad thought, with mortification, that he 
would never grow used to the alternate talka¬ 
tiveness and curtness of these trappers. 
Over their pipes and after a meal they would 
grow expansive, reeling off long yarns of the 
things they had done, the sights they had 
seen. When business was afoot, they grew 
sparing of words, a nod, a jerked thumb, a 


136 LUCKY SHOT 

grunt often serving the purpose of explana¬ 
tion. 

Carson, in particular, was laconic. Ex¬ 
pert in the use of the Indian sign language, he 
sometimes passed an entire day without 
speaking more than a few sentences, his 
agile fingers communicating his thoughts in 
silence. 

But Brad had small time to reflect over 
this trait in the hunter’s character. He found 
Blue in the corral, inspecting the saddle- 
packs he was to take on the journey. 

The boy was solemnly happy under his 
new honors. He realized that Carson was 
testing him by putting him in charge of the 
expedition, and he was determined to prove 
himself worthy of his brief authority. 

He nodded, in patent imitation of his hero, 
at Brad’s news; gave brief directions as to 
what would be needed, and promised to speak 
to the chief clerk about supplying Brad with 
those necessities. Then he turned back to the 
matter in hand with the effect of dismissing 
Brad entirely, and Brad, grinning at the 


LUCKY SHOT 


137 


change between the young runaway in charge 
of the cavvy and the important hunter pre¬ 
paring his party for a dangerous expedition, 
went to find Ned and tell him the great news. 


CHAPTER TEN 


The thrill of that first hunt! 

The boys did their best to appear entirely 
casual about it, but when, on the second day 
of January, 1838, they rode their horses out 
of the east gate and set out toward the moun¬ 
tains, followed by their two half-breed com¬ 
panions and pack horses laden with food and 
blankets, their hearts were beating high with 
excitement. 

To all intents and purposes, they were on 
their own. Their companions, Carlos and 
Juan, while experienced men, lacked those 
traits of leadership which already had mani¬ 
fested themselves in the two boys. The half- 
breeds would take orders from Blue, and 
Brad would confer with his friend in any 
emergency. 

The day was fiercely cold, but very little 


138 


LUCKY SHOT 


139 


snow had fallen near the Fort. As they 
neared the mountains, the drifts would be 
formidable, Carson had warned them, and 
each of the party had a pair of snowshoes 
strapped to his saddlebow. 

“ Any special place we’re headed for? ” 
Brad asked nonchalantly when the day was 
half spent. “ For to-night, I mean? ” 

“ There’s a water hole about twenty-five 
miles from the Fort. We have to chart our 
way by water, of course, until there’s more 
snow than this.” 

“ Twenty-five miles? Is that all we’re to 
do to-day? I thought of course we’d make 
thirty.” 

“ Got the pack horses to consider,” young 
Blue rejoined. “ They’re loaded heavy, and 
we got to keep ’em in good condition to bring 
back the beaver.” 

“ Isn’t it pretty late to go after beaver? 
Supposing the streams are frozen over, what 
can we do then? ” 

“ They won’t be yet,” Blue answered con¬ 
fidently. “ And beaver fur’s prime this time 


140 


LUCKY SHOT 


of year. Kit told me a squaw-dressed skin’ll 
bring as high as six dollars in St. Joe.” 

“You figuring on finding squaws to dress 
’em—where we’re going? ” 

The boy nodded. “ Plenty of ’Rapahoes 
at the foot of the mountains where we’re 
headed. One of them big sacks on the horses 
is filled with sugar; big fat lumps of it, 
straight from Noorleans. The squaws’ll do 
anything on earth for you, if you offer ’em 
sugar.” 

They made camp that night at the water 
hole Blue had spoken of. Both were stiff 
from a long day in the saddle and hungry 
enough to do full justice to the griddle bread 
and buffalo stew the half-breeds prepared for 
them. After they had eaten until they could 
eat no more, the boys spread their blankets in 
a sheltered spot with their feet toward the 
fire, which must be kept burning all night, 
both for warmth and for protection from wild 
animals, and lost no time in falling asleep. 

Brad was wakened by a feeling of intense 
cold. The fire had died down to embers, the 


LUCKY SHOT 


141 


wind had changed, and the protection of the 
blankets which had seemed ample the night 
before now offered little warmth. Drugged 
with sleep, he struggled to forget his discom¬ 
fort ; but at last he left his bed and piled fresh 
fuel on the fire. In a few minutes it was 
crackling merrily and Brad, warmed through, 
thought to return to his blankets and resume 
his interrupted slumbers. 

“ Time to eat,” Carlos announced, coming 
up behind him. 

“ To eat? Say, what you talking about? 
It’s the middle of the night. Why, look! 
It’s pitch-dark yet.” 

The other shook his head. “ Carlos smell 
the morning,” he declared. He busied him¬ 
self about the fire, Juan bringing water from 
the stream. Blue came, cold and yawning, 
from his blankets, and by the time the late- 
rising sun had peeped over the horizon, the 
party of four was several miles on its way. 

The plains at the foot of the mountains 
were reached in ten days’ travel, and except 
for a bruised foot Juan had suffered when a 


142 


LUCKY SHOT 


limb he was chopping fell upon him, all were 
well and in good spirits. 

When the river which was their destination 
was reached, Blue modestly relinquished 
command of the expedition to his more ex¬ 
perienced helpers. They went to work sys¬ 
tematically. 

A natural dam in the stream had formed a 
pond, and for two days all hands were busy 
removing this obstruction. 

It was a task which sorely tried the endur¬ 
ance of the two boys. Even though they 
were equipped with boots of hip length, the 
icy water of the river chilled them through 
and through. Their hands, despite their 
heavy gloves, grew numb with handling the 
large stones. Again and again they were 
obliged to retire to the fire which was kept 
going on the bank, and warm themselves be¬ 
fore they could resume work. 

“ Pretty dam cold,” Carlos commented, 
apparently unconscious of his pun. “ Soon 
be through now—to-night maybe.” 

So it proved. By dusk the last barrier had 



LUCKY SHOT 


143 


been removed and the water was draining 
from the pond the dam had formed. 

“ By morning it’ll be almost dry,” Brad 
said with satisfaction. “ Then we can-” 

“ Morning? ” Juan wagged his head in 
derisive negation. “ Beaver be gone in de 
morning. We get him to-night! ” 

“ To-night? But we can’t see to-night! 
There’s no moon. How are we going to hunt 
beaver at night? ” 

“ Juan show you,” that individual com¬ 
mented. 

The boys watched the preparations with in¬ 
terest. Fires were built on both banks of the 
pond, their flames lighting up the scene with 
a fantastic glow. Armed with stout clubs 
all four then waded in and in less than an 
hour forty-two animals were piled upon the 
bank, a record even for that day and place. 

“ It seems a shame to kill ’em,” Brad said 
regretfully, stroking the handsome fur. 
“ They’re kind of like people, with their little 
town all by themselves that they made.” 

“ Their skins keep people warm,” Blue of- 



144 


LUCKY SHOT 


fered. “ And this way’s a lot less cruel than 
' traps—you got to remember that.” Then 
his boyish pride and glee in the achievement 
came uppermost. “ Forty-two at one time, 
Brad! Ain’t that a haul for any hunter to be 
proud of! Say, won’t Kit be pleased when 
we show him these prime skins? Not a kit¬ 
ten among ’em, either.” 

“ Where’s your ’Rapahoe squaws to dress 
’em? ” Brad demanded. 

“ Over there.” Blue nodded to the north¬ 
west. “ There’s a settlement about thirty 
miles from here.” 

“ Thirty miles? Do we have to pack all 
these beavers thirty miles? ” 

Carlos forestalled the explanation. “ We 
skin she first—then pack him to de Injun.” 

“ Skin forty-two beaver to-morrow? ” 
Brad said in dismay. “ Why, it’ll take us all 
day! ” 

“ Not to-morrow! ” The half-breed’s grin 
came again. “ To-night—still to-night. 
We skin she while it a leetle warm.” 

And to Brad’s disgust they did just that. 




LUCKY SHOT 


145 


By the light of the fires which Carlos kept 
blazing, the four removed the handsome coats 
from all the animals, Carlos and Juan remov¬ 
ing four apiece to the boys’ one. There was 
a knack to the process which Blue acquired 
more quickly than his friend, and soon he 
could nearly if not quite equal the half- 
breeds’ skill. 

The task seemed interminable. Already 
tired by a long day’s work with the removal 
of the dam, they had put forth effort in the 
slaughter of the beavers. Now with limbs 
aching and eyes which closed occasionally in 
spite of the boys’ best efforts, they were 
obliged to wield the long sharp skinning- 
knives, their hands numb with cold as the 
bodies stiffened. Occasionally Carlos or 
Juan stopped to make a pot of coffee and the 
hot, strong fluid revived the boys tempora¬ 
rily; but when dawn came and the last pelt 
had been removed and placed in a bundle with 
the others, the young hunters were practically 
asleep on their feet. Carlos allowed them a 
few hours of rest, then roused them to par- 


146 


LUCKY SHOT 


take of the hearty meal which combined 
breakfast and dinner for them. 

“ I suppose we’d better make a start for the 
’Rapahoe camp to-day,” Blue commented as 
he finished the last slab of griddle bread. 
“ Then we can make it by to-morrow night 
easy.” 

Carlos, however, shook his head. 

“ I think eet snow,” he declared, pointing 
toward the north. “ More better we hurry a 
leetle, make camp to-night for long time.” 

Even to the boys’ inexperienced eyes, it 
was evident that a storm was brewing in the 
mountains. The sky was overcast, and the 
peaks on which the sun had shone so brightly 
yesterday were now blotted out. The little 
camp broke up with as much haste as it was 
possible to make. 

By this time some of their stores had been 
used and it was possible, though it made a 
heavy load, to bind the bundles of green skins 
on the pack horses. The speed was greatly 
decreased, of course, and they were but eight 
miles on their journey when night fell. 


LUCKY SHOT 147 

“ She snow to-night,” Juan predicted, 
sniffing the air. “ She snow dam hard.” 

And snow she did, at first in a wild flurry 
which the boys hoped would spend itself, later 
coming down with a businesslike directness 
which boded ill for to-morrow’s journey. 

Dawn—if the pallid lightening in the east 
which was all they were to see of the sun for 
several days could be called dawn—found 
them completely blocked off from the trail. 
A high wind had blown since midnight and 
the snow lay in drifts already some five feet 
in depth, with the storm still raging. 

“ Hadn’t we better push on before it gets 
worse? ” Brad asked. “ This may last for 
days.” 

Blue also was in favor of making the at¬ 
tempt, but the two half-breeds negatived the 
idea emphatically. 

“ More better us stay here,” Carlos said. 
“ One fine camp here. Might get los’ our¬ 
selves if us try to go on.” 

The“ fine camp ’’consisted of a little group 
of hemlock-trees, their twisted branches giv- 




148 


LUCKY SHOT 


ing mute evidence of the years they had with¬ 
stood similar storms. There was a small 
stream near by, though its waters had frozen 
before night fell. 

Carlos and Juan set to work composedly 
to prepare more permanent quarters than had 
yet been required. With their short-handled 
axes they chopped branches from the hem¬ 
locks and built a sort of hut with the boles of 
the trees for tent-poles. Outside of the 
branch walls they heaped snow, packing it 
down until it was firm and hard. When the 
little shelter was finished, the boys were sur¬ 
prised to find how warm and comfortable it 
was. They lent a hand in clearing the ground 
inside, and when more branches had been cut 
and their blankets spread over them, they had 
beds which were, as Brad said, “ the last touch 
of elegance in our arctic home.” 

The fire was built just outside the hut. 
Fortunately for them, there was no scarcity 
of fuel. In places where the wind had swept 
the ground clear of snow, wood from the hem¬ 
locks lay in great quantities, and the half- 


LUCKY SHOT 


149 


breeds worked earnestly to gather it and pile 
it within reach of the hilt. At any minute 
the wind might change, and all available fuel 
be hidden by the snow. 

The horses had not been forgotten. Juan 
picketed them under the trees, in the lee of the 
hut. It was interesting to see how the saga¬ 
cious creatures kept the fire and the shelter of 
the branches between themselves and the bliz¬ 
zard. There was little food for them, but by 
melting huge quantities of snow in their 
kettles, the boys were able to give them plenty 
of water, which the animals drank gratefully. 

At dinner-time Juan and Carlos served 
what the boys considered decidedly niggardly 
quantities of food. A little reflection, how¬ 
ever, showed them that it was necessary to 
conserve their supplies, at least until they 
could obtain fresh meat. 

“ Deer to-morrow,” Juan promised them, 
grinning. 

“ How can you tell? ” 

“ Juan see tracks-” He gestured 


widely toward the north. 



150 


LUCKY SHOT 


The party slept more comfortably that 
night than any since they had left the Fort. 
The hemlock beds were deliciously soft, the 
snow walls kept them warm, and the howling 
of the blizzard outside made music for a lul¬ 
laby. 

“ It’s clear to-day! ” Blue shouted when 
he stuck his head out of the shelter. “ Hur¬ 
rah! We can go on.” 

But Carlos would not hear to it. “ She 
snow some more,” he said, again with a nod 
toward the range of mountains which could 
be seen shining like freshly frosted wedding 
cakes in the distance. “ More better we get 
deer.” 

Nothing could suit either boy better than a 
prospect of a hunt, and after a sparing break¬ 
fast they strapped on their snowshoes and set 
forth, leaving Carlos and Juan to guard the 
camp. 

Blue justified Carson’s faith in his ability 
as a hunter by pausing a few yards away to 
get his bearings. 

“ Won’t do to get lost out here,” he said. 


LUCKY SHOT 


151 


“ We’ll work to the south in a straight line. 
That’ll be easier to keep track of than a zig¬ 
zag course.” 

“ Why can’t we find our way back by our 
own trail? ” Brad demanded, pointing to the 
parallel marks of their snowshoes. 

“ Can—if it stays clear. Five minutes’ 
snow would cover our tracks completely.” 

Brad, to his vast delight and pride, was the 
first to bring down game, a fine young deer 
which was all he could do to lug home. Blue 
had little luck, a buck rabbit and a couple of 
prairie chickens being all that he bagged. 
However, the camp now had meat enough to 
last it for some days. Nothing, Brad Hund¬ 
ley thought, ever had tasted so good as the 
steaks Carlos broiled over the coals that night. 
The tender deer meat was salted with strips 
of cured bacon used sparingly, and eaten with 
the griddle bread the half-breed knew how to 
make so deliciously. And the fact that it was 
his own gun which had brought down the ani¬ 
mal gave the meat a special savor to the boy. 

By sundown the snow recommenced. 



152 


LUCKY SHOT 


Down from the far high peaks the storm 
hurled itself, the wind shaking the hemlock- 
trees in fury, battering at the frail shelter 
which held the four human beings in this de¬ 
serted world. The horses stood with hang¬ 
ing heads, silently enduring a discomfort they 
were powerless to lessen. 

Brad had brought his harmonica with him 
and for a time he played over the favorites 
which the others demanded. But the shrill 
strains of the man-made instrument seemed 
an affront to the mighty diapason of the wind, 
and soon he put it away and went to bed, 
where he and Blue slept as only healthy boy¬ 
hood can sleep, their blankets covering their 
heads, their dreams being of beaver hunts and 
Indian fights and long journeys along the 
trail. 


CHAPTER ELEVEN 


The skin lodges of the Arapahoe village 
gleamed white against the dark pines. Daz¬ 
zling snow beneath, dazzling peaks above, 
and the white tepees—it almost blinded the 
boys as they rode up the trail. Behind them 
came Carlos and Juan and behind them in 
turn, the pack-ponies. 

Six days had gone by since the little party 
had been halted by the storm; six days in 
which the patience and resourcefulness of the 
young hunters had been tried to the utmost. 
At last the storm abated, the sun shone again, 
and Carlos pronounced it the moment for de¬ 
parture. 

“ It’s like wading through some of our Mis¬ 
souri mud,” Brad exclaimed, as his horse’s 
feet went down and down and were pulled 
free from the snow with a visible effort. The 


153 



154 


LUCKY SHOT 


boys on their snowshoes fared better, but they 
could make no speed on account of the horses 
they led. 

Brad went ahead, leading Greased Light¬ 
ning, and breaking a trail in the shining sur¬ 
face for the others. Fortunately the snow 
had not yet acquired a heavy crust, which the 
boys dreaded for the cuts it would inflict on 
the horses’ forelegs. Blue followed, leading 
his sorrel, and after him came Carlos and 
Juan and the pack horses, reined together in 
a string. Thus the more heavily burdened 
animals had a comparatively clear trail to fol¬ 
low, but even so, their progress was slow, and 
it was the evening of the second day after 
they had left camp when they came in sight 
of the Indian village. 

“ I’ve always wanted to see how Indians 
live in winter,” the Missouri boy said. 
“ Somehow you always think of them as be¬ 
longing to the summer, eating and sleeping 
almost altogether outdoors. I want to see 
how they manage, without stoves and real 
houses, when it gets below zero.” 


LUCKY SHOT 


155 


“ Ain’t there Injuns where you come 
from? ” 

Plenty of ’em,” Brad answered. “ But 
they’re Sacs and Foxes and loways—and 
they imitate the white man as much as they 
can. They’re always taking possession of an 
old hut or house somewhere and crowding into 
it, as many as they can get, for the winter. 
And now, of course, since the Platte Pur¬ 
chase, they have their own houses—a store 
and a school, too! on the Government reserva¬ 
tion.” 

Brad’s curiosity was soon satisfied. Car- 
son had supplied the boys with a “ sign mes¬ 
sage ” to the Arapahoe chief of the village, a 
package which contained, besides the gifts 
which were sent as a matter of courtesy, a 
peace pipe, signifying the pacific intentions 
of the bearers, a silver bracelet on which vari¬ 
ous emblems were inscribed, which appar¬ 
ently carried their own significance to the 
Indians, and a long scarlet feather, the mean¬ 
ing of which was unknown to the boys until 
the chief explained to them, partly by signs 




156 


LUCKY SHOT 


and partly by words interpreted by Carlos, 
that it was the “ blood token ” between the 
Arapahoes and Carson. 

“ My brother at Taos sends greeting to his 
brother, One-Who-Kills-Bears-with-His- 
Arms,” the chief made oration. “ My 
brother knows how friendly are the Arapa¬ 
hoes with the whites, and how welcome are 
the young men he sends. As swift as the 
eagle, as truly-to-be-counted-on as the com¬ 
ing of the spring, as kind as the summer sun 
—these are the Arapahoes. My brother at 
Taos knows all this, and proves his faith in 
the Arapahoes by sending his young hunters 
to us. Thus it is written on the bracelet he 
sent.” 

When this was interpreted to them, both 
boys had much ado to suppress their grins. 
They were remembering Carson’s last words 
to them concerning the Arapahoes: 

“ The doggone skunks are afraid of me, 
and they’ll think twice before they’ll meddle 
with any messengers I send: Just the same, 
mind what I told you about them ’Rapahoes. 



LUCKY SHOT 


157 


You can trust ’em just as far as you can sling 
a cat—providin’ the cat is a wild ’un and yore 
arm is powerful weak. Just that far and no 
farther. Keep yore eyes peeled every min¬ 
ute you’re with ’em.” 

This far from reassuring advice recurred 
to Brad now as he found himself being ush¬ 
ered ceremoniously into the largest lodge, the 
home of the chief. Nevertheless, he was 
deeply interested in this winter home of an 
Arapahoe chief. 

The tepee was much larger than any he had 
ever seen before, some thirty-five feet in cir¬ 
cumference. Its sides were supported by 
poles driven into the ground and a center pole 
raised the sewn skins to a comfortable height. 
Against the walls were stretched a series of 
cowskins, their smooth surfaces covered with 
paintings in crude colors. Afterwards Brad 
learned that these comprised the history of 
the chief, his deeds of valor, his illnesses, his 
periods of warfare, all set forth in picture 
language. 

“ And take a look at the beds! ” Blue ex- 



158 


LUCKY SHOT 


claimed in an awe-stricken whisper. “ Ain’t 
that real luxury for you? ” 

End to end lay the buffalo-skin couches, 
neat mats of peeled willow rods at their head 
and foot. Over the couches were spread 
superb furs of bear, fox, and wolf. 

From the lodge-poles hung cases of buck¬ 
skin which contained the family wardrobe, 
the boys knew. Brad gained some idea of 
the painstaking labor which went into these 
garments when he was shown a tiny waist¬ 
coat made for a child of three, its entire sur¬ 
face worked in an elaborate pattern of beads 
and dyed porcupine quills, its edges finished 
with a care and beauty which would have done 
credit to the best tailor in New York City. 

Two fires provided warmth and the cook¬ 
ing arrangements for the lodge. They pro¬ 
vided smoke, too, its acrid fumes making the 
boys’ eyes and throats smart continually. 
The Indians did not seem to be inconven¬ 
ienced in the least by it, and openly laughed 
at their guests’ sufferings. 

Carlos conducted the business of getting 


LUCKY SHOT 


159 


the beaver skins dressed with the utmost sim¬ 
plicity. He and Juan opened the great 
bundles of green fur, extracted a handful of 
brown sugar from the sack and made the 
squaws understand that for each skin they 
dressed a similar amount of sugar would be 
given. 

“ And look at ’em crowd! ” Blue said joy¬ 
ously. “ Say, at this rate we’ll get them 
skins dressed pronto! ” 

The squaws indeed were pushing forward 
in eager proffer of their services. They jab¬ 
bered excitedly and made queer motions with 
their hands which so amused the boys that 
they burst out laughing. 

“ They show how to dress the beaver veree 
fine, veree queek,” Carlos explained. “See 
—now they take out the scraping-knife; and 
now they salt the hide—so! She is better to 
do so than each the other.” 

The pantomime was at first too rapid for 
the boys’ unaccustomed eyes but after a while 
they were able to follow the various processes 
of preparing the skins, as evidenced by the 




160 


LUCKY SHOT 


quickly flying fingers of the eager women. 
Carlos and Juan dealt out the skins impar¬ 
tially. The nearest bronze hand received the 
forthcoming pelt until all had been given out 
and forty-two fortunate recipients went bus¬ 
ily to work. 

During the day, the boys lounged about the 
village, learning much of the musical-voiced, 
tall savages. Almost they were indignant 
with Carson for his adverse opinion of them. 
They were friendly, hospitable, apparently 
transparent in their natures. 

The chief, One-Who-Kills-Bears-with-His 
Arms, himself led a party of braves into the 
mountains on an antelope hunt for the enter¬ 
tainment of the guests. At the close of each 
evening meal, the peace pipe was ceremoni¬ 
ally passed, a compliment with which Brad, 
for one, could have cheerfully dispensed. 

Gifts were constantly being exchanged be¬ 
tween the whites and their hosts. The chief 
coveted the leather belt with steel buckle 
which Brad wore and when the boy good- 
naturedly took it off and presented it to him. 


LUCKY SHOT 


161 


the grave thanks of the chief were made more 
substantial by the gift of a pair of handsomely 
embroidered moccasins. 

The boys were interested to learn the origin 
of the name of their host. 

His previous title, they discovered, had 
been Very-Long-Arms, a portent, had the 
owner of the limbs in question but known it, 
of a significant event to come. This was the 
tale he told the boys, with many gestures and 
by the help of Carlos whose dark face shone 
in the light of the evening fire. 

Many years ago Very-Long-Arms had 
come, unexpectedly and alone, face to face 
with a grizzly bear, just going into hiberna¬ 
tion. The animal was dull with the begin¬ 
ning of his long stupor, but not too dull to 
recognize an enemy who had sprung up in his 
path, no less to the bear’s astonishment than 
to his own. 

Long-Arms was too close to the animal to 
have room to draw his bow. He fumbled for 
his hunting-knife, but with a lightning swoop 
the bear gathered him into a fierce and hairy 


162 


LUCKY SHOT 


embrace, almost crushing the breath from the 
body of the unlucky Indian. 

There was but one thing to do and Very- 
Long-Arms did it. Round that clumsy 
body he wound his own arms, and a contest of 
endurance began. The bear had the advan¬ 
tage of superior strength, but the Indian’s 
arms were longer and so obtained a greater 
purchase on his bearship. The redskin felt 
several of his ribs cracking under the terrific 
pressure. His breath was almost spent, his 
face was dark with congested blood, when 
suddenly the huge form in his arms relaxed, 
and the bear tumbled over, dead. 

So at least was the story Very-Long- 
Arms brought back to the encampment, and 
for proof he had not only his bruised body 
and broken ribs, but the skin of the bear itself. 
He had lingered, for all his pain, to remove 
the magnificent pelt, and now it covered the 
very bed on which the chief stretched himself 
at night. And since that time he had been 
known as One-Who-Kills-Bears-with-His 
Arms. 


LUCKY SHOT 


163 


“ How much of all that do you believe, 
Brad? ” Blue inquired in a whisper. 
“ Sounds like a whopper to me.” 

It was not likely that the chief understood 
the words, but the open incredulity on Blue’s 
face was easy to read. At any rate, the chief 
suddenly threw his arms about the boy’s thin 
body and gathered him in a bone-breaking 
embrace. Blue had not breath to yell. 
Brad, believing at first from the grin on the 
Indian’s face, that the incident was a joke, 
nevertheless looked on a little uneasily. 

It was Carlos, coming up suddenly from 
behind, who realized Blue’s danger. Unex¬ 
pectedly the chief felt the cold muzzle of a 
gun poked into his body and at once relaxed 
his grasp of the bruised and breathless boy. 

“ Funnee work! ” he said, out of his scant 
English. “ Boy laugh ha-ha! ” 

“ Can’t say I see the funny side of it,” 
Brad told him, scowling. “ And I reckon 
Blue isn’t feeling much like ha-ha-ing, you 
old bear-hugger! Why, you pretty near 
killed him! If-” 



164 LUCKY SHOT 

Carlos’ hand came down warningly on his 
shoulder. 

“No make chief angree,” he said. “ Be 
careful! ” 

Brad was sensible enough to realize the 
need for caution. They were four against 
the Indian’s many scores of friends, and 
though the fear of Carson and the expediency 
of keeping peace with the white man re¬ 
strained them, the Arapahoes were capable 
of pushing both reasons aside if they were an¬ 
gered. 

“ Did he ’most kill you, Blue ? ” Brad asked 
sympathetically, as they both withdrew to the 
bed they occupied in the lodge. There was, 
of course, no privacy whatever within the 
tepee. The chief and his entire family, num¬ 
bering some dozen or more, slept within, and 
it was only after they were snuggled down 
under their robes that the boys could ex¬ 
change any words without their faces being 
searched for a clue to their meaning. 

“ I certainly thought he was going to kill 
me,” Blue gasped, rubbing his sore sides ten- 


LUCKY SHOT 


165 


derly. “ Say, I sure can believe that bear 
story now! A grizzly wouldn’t have a ghost 
of a chance once he found hisself in that 
hombre’s hug. Brad, I’m telling you, I 
thought my last hour had come! ” 

The entire encampment regarded the inci¬ 
dent as the greatest possible joke. Blue 
needed only to touch his hand to his aching 
ribs thereafter to have the squaws roar with 
laughter while the children circled about him 
pointing derisive fingers at the victim. The 
boy bore it good-naturedly, but neither he nor 
Brad was grief-stricken when the last of the 
beaver pelts was ready, payment had been 
made and the hunters were once more on the 
open trail. 

“ What d’you think of the ’Rapahoes 
now? ” Blue inquired, as they rode side by 
side through the pine forest, the snow having 
melted enough to make riding possible. 
“ D’you agree with Kit about them? ” 

“ The only thing I’ve got to say,” Brad re¬ 
marked emphatically, “ is that I’m thankful 
we got out of that village alive. I believe if 


166 


LUCKY SHOT 


we hadn’t given ’em every lump of sugar we 
had and all the presents we brought along to 
use on the whole trip, they’d have scalped us 
to get ’em. And, say—wasn’t it awful? 
All those people in the tepee? I’m not used 
to having so many roommates.” 

The journey back was uneventful, though 
the rapidly diminishing food supply caused 
the party to stop several times to kill and 
dress fresh meat. 

All their hardships—and viewed in the 
light of later experiences neither boy thought 
them very heavy—were forgotten in the 
proud moment when they rode through the 
gates of the Fort, their horses in excellent 
condition, their packs full of prime beaver 
skins already dressed, and a message of good 
will (which Carson received with his tongue 
in his cheek) from the Arapahoe chief, One- 
Who-Kills-Bears-with-His-Arms, to his 
white brother of Taos, now at Bent’s Fort. 





CHAPTER TWELVE 

William Bent was ill. The entire Fort 
knew it and was anxious. 

Carson had made one of his frequent jour¬ 
neys up from Taos and with him, greatly to 
Brad’s delight, came Blue. Kit urged upon 
his friend remedy after remedy, but none of 
them brought relief. 

The Mexicans proffered religious charms 
and relics and prayed earnestly for his recov¬ 
ery. Indian medicine men practised their 
rites, and one night Brad was a fascinated 
observer of a genuine medicine dance, held 
just outside the walls of the Fort with drums 
beating monotonously until daylight and fan¬ 
tastic figures leaping and falling, leaping and 
falling in the glow of the flames, hour after 
tireless hour. 

Charlotte waddled in and out of the mas- 


167 


168 


LUCKY SHOT 


ter’s room with savory dishes for which Bent 
was starving but could not eat. Andrew 
Green hovered over the patient solicitously. 
Owl Woman, Bent’s Cheyenne wife, was be¬ 
side herself with fear and sorrow. 

“ But what is it? ” Brad asked. “ What 
ails him?” 

“ Putrid sore throat,” Carson answered. 
“ It’s closing up and he can’t swallow.” 

“ He ought to gargle with salt and vine¬ 
gar.” The boy recalled certain youthful ill¬ 
nesses in which that remedy had figured. 

“ He’s gargled with everything except lye 
now, I reckon,” was Carson’s mournful an¬ 
swer. “ It’s a dry sore throat, d’you see, and 
nothing seems to do it any good. Bad busi¬ 
ness, Brad. If something isn’t done mighty 
soon, looks like old Bill will starve. Owl 
Woman’s feeding him through a quill now, 
and that ain’t going to serve much longer, 
either.” 

Brad was truly concerned by the plight of 
the man whom he had come to regard with 
genuine affection. Bent had gone out of his 


LUCKY SHOT 


169 


way to be kind to the young visitor from St. 
Joseph, as he was kind to all who sought the 
protection of the Fort. 

“ Couldn’t we get a doctor down here—in 
time? ” he asked Ned Hundley anxiously. 
“ I could ride Greased Lightning-” 

“ Where to? ” his uncle demanded. “ The 
nearest doctor—American doctor, that is, is 
in Missouri. It’d take you a couple of 
months at this time of the year, even riding 
alone and without pack-ponies, to get there— 
if you ever did get there alone; another couple 
of months to get back; and I tell you, Brad, 
Bent’s got to get relief within a couple of 
days , if he’s to live! ” 

Presently through the Fort ran the news 
that “ Lawyer ” had been sent for from the 
Big Timbers, thirty miles away. A stir of 
excitement greeted this news. 

Lawyer was a Cheyenne who had won his 
name from his ability to adjust differences 
within his own tribe. Neither a chief nor a 
medicine man, he yet held a high position 
among them for his shrewdness and resource- 




170 LUCKY SHOT 

fulness. He was a warm friend of Bent’s, 
the rumor being that he was related to Owl 
Woman. Brad had often seen him, a tall, 
rugged figure, blanket-wrapped, sitting in 
the big upstairs room which was the general 
gathering-place for the white residents of the 
Fort, exchanging sentences at long intervals 
with William Bent. 

“ What can he do? ” the boy demanded. 
“ Hold another medicine dance, or tie some 
more of those queer charms to his forehead? 
Looks awfully silly to me, Ned, sending a 
runner in such a hurry just to get another 
Indian here when there are already nearly a 
hundred down in the court.” 

“Not all of them together have as much 
sense as Lawyer,” Ned retorted. “ If any¬ 
body within five hundred miles of here can 
help poor old Bill, it’ll be Lawyer. Owl 
Woman’s been trying to get Bent to let her 
send for him from the first, and I’m mighty 
glad she’s succeeded at last.” 

Carson, who was listening, gave a chuckle. 
“ She didn’t succeed! She took matters into 


LUCKY SHOT 


171 


her own hands. Bent can’t talk now, you 
know. Plenty of gall for a squaw, wasn’t 
it ? Glad she did it, though. I gave the run¬ 
ner my own horse so’s he could make the best 
time.” 

The fact that these two white men took so 
seriously the summoning of a Cheyenne to 
Bent’s aid aroused Brad’s interest, and he, 
with the rest of the Fort, watched from the 
battlements eagerly as the time drew near 
for Lawyer’s arrival. 

“Thar he comes!” Bim Black shouted. 
“ Oh, glory to God! Thar he comes! ” 

There were actual tears in the old man’s 
eyes. The pain and hunger of his beloved 
leader had eaten like acid into his very soul. 

The Indian was taken directly to the sick 
room and in the friendly and unhygienic 
fashion of the time as many of the Fort’s resi¬ 
dents as could crowd through the door came 
with him. Thus Brad Hundley became a 
witness to a chapter of medical experience 
which stands unique in its history.* 


* A true incident. 


172 


LUCKY SHOT 


Lawyer called for a spoon the first thing 
and with its handle pushed the patient’s 
tongue down and looked into his throat, for 
all the world like old Doctor Keedy back 
home, Brad thought. 

What he saw there evidently gave him 
grave concern, for he shook his head discour- 
agingly. Then to the bewilderment of the 
onlookers he began to call for a miscellaneous 
assortment of objects: (1) a large lump of 
marrow grease; (2) a piece of sinew; (3) a 
small flat stick; (4) an awl. 

While these were being procured he stalked 
out of the Fort on business of his own, re¬ 
turning shortly with something in his hand. 

“ What is it? ” Brad whispered, craning 
his neck to see over the heads of the spec¬ 
tators. 

“ Burrs,” Ned told him. “ Sand burrs, as 
big as marrowfat peas. They have barbs as 
sharp as fishhooks and they all turn up the 
same way. Blamed if I know what he’s go¬ 
ing to do with ’em! ” 

“ Cook ’em in the fat and stir ’em with the 


LUCKY SHOT 173 

stick,” Brad suggested, out of his recent ob¬ 
servations of Indian medicine practice. 

But there was no fire in the room, nor did 
Lawyer call for one. Instead he went skill¬ 
fully to work, drawing the sinew into half a 
dozen threads and tying a knot in the end of 
each. 

Silence fell upon the room; a silence 
through which the sick man’s tortured breath¬ 
ing cut sharply. Carson and Ned Hundley 
were watching with intelligent interest the 
movements of the old Indian. Crouched by 
the bed, Owl Woman wrung her hands in 
silent anxiety. The Mexicans muttered 
prayers, crossing themselves each time Bent’s 
laborious breathing assailed their ears. In 
the corridor, clerks and Indians elbowed one 
another in their eagerness to see what was 
going on in the sick room. 

Lawyer worked swiftly. He took the awl 
and pierced each burr and ran the sinew 
through it down to the knot. Then he rolled 
the burr in the marrow grease until the cruel 
barbs were completely covered. Next he 


174 


LUCKY SHOT 


took up the stick, notched it deeply at one end 
and, wrapping the unknotted end of the sinew 
around his finger, placed the notched stick 
against the burr. 

“ I see! ” Ned breathed in an undertone. 
“ That’s smart of him! Good old Lawyer! ” 

In deep tones the Indian was commanding 
Bent to open his mouth once more. Down 
his throat to the full length of the stick went 
the grease-covered burr and was drawn out 
and thrust down again perhaps half a dozen 
times. 

“ Ugh! ” grunted Lawyer, inspecting the 
burr. “ Sickness come out—and up! My 
brother soon be well now.” 

It was true that the dry and corrupt matter 
which was filling Bent’s throat was brought 
up with each painful thrust of the barbed 
burr. The patient winced and the tears came 
into his eyes with the pain, but he allowed the 
Indian to continue the process as long as he 
would. 

At last Lawyer nodded his satisfaction and 
threw aside the stick and burr. In his own 



LUCKY SHOT 


175 


tongue lie instructed Owl Woman to make a 
soothing gargle of certain herbs he produced 
from a package he had brought with him, and 
thankfully she disappeared to carry out his 
instructions. When this had been used, it 
was found that Bent could swallow almost 
without difficulty. 

“ He’ll do now,” Carson said with satisfac¬ 
tion. “ Smart old chap, wasn’t he, to figure 
it all out like that ? ’Bout three more of those 
treatments, and Bill will be as good as new.” 

That night for the first time in over a week 
the Fort’s owner ate a little of the nourishing 
soup Charlotte had prepared for him. Be¬ 
fore he slept, Lawyer repeated the swabbing. 
By morning the patient was greatly im¬ 
proved, and in three days he was, as Carson 
had predicted, as good as new. 

“ Who’d have supposed an Indian could 
have thought that all out? ” Brad said in 
amaze. 

“ Look here, kid, you’ve still got a lot of 
things to learn about Indians,” Ned told him. 
“ Come up in my room and I’ll show you a lot 


176 


LUCKY SHOT 


of little tricks that’ll make your eyes open, 
if I know anything.” 

He led the way to a small bedroom in the 
north wall and opened the heavy chest at the 
foot of his cot. From it he took various ob¬ 
jects which he exhibited, one by one, to the 
interested Brad. 

First there was a block of red sandstone, 
about ten inches square and perhaps eight 
inches deep. Along its surface were black¬ 
ened grooves, made, so Ned explained, by 
fire, for the purpose of sharpening and shap¬ 
ing the tools the Indians made from bones. 

“ First they split the bones and scrape the 
marrow from them. Then they dry ’em care¬ 
fully, turning the pieces every day until they 
are just brittle enough to handle—not so 
brittle they’ll break, though. Look, here’s 
the smallest—a needle. Look at the point 
at one end and the flat edge to the other.” 

“ But there’s no hole in it—no place to run 
the thread through! ” 

“ Oh, they don’t use the needle to carry the 
thread. Just to punch holes in the skin 





LUCKY SHOT 


177 


through which they push the stiffened thread. 
Here’s a larger size—that’s an awl, like the 
one Lawyer used yesterday. Mighty useful 
things, these awls, and they come in all sizes. 
Here’s a scraping tool to be used in dressing 
skins—see how sharp it is. Look out, there! 
Don’t cut your hand on it.” For Brad was 
drawing it curiously along his palm. “ This 
broad, flat-edged affair is used to knead the 
skins, back and forth, to begin the softening 
process. Quite a respectable array of tools 
to have been made from the natural resources 
of the country, don’t you think? ” 

“ What’s this little bundle of dried 
grasses? ” Brad demanded. 

“ Medicine grass, my boy! There’s more 
power in that—power of persuasion, I mean 
—than there is in all the silver-tongue ora¬ 
tory of our statesmen in Washington. The 
medicine man gathers these grasses under 
stipulated conditions and with proper cere¬ 
mony. He binds them together with the 
string of reason—though I admit that to our 
uneducated eyes it looks a whole lot like a 







178 


LUCKY SHOT 


piece of hemp. And he lays the bundle, with 
perhaps a dozen others like it, around the 
council fire and watches the effect of the heat 
on each bundle. Don’t ask me what means 
what in the process. I only know that it’s all 
of the greatest significance.” 

“ Have you ever seen them making medi- 
cme? 

“Have I? ” His uncle laughed ruefully. 
“ Once in particular! I had a deep interest 
in the making of that medicine, as my own 
life hung on it. I’d been taken captive by 
the Kiowas—no, I’ve never told your father 
about it . . . what’s the use? It’s been over 
for six years or more. Anyway, there was 
some argument as to what should be done with 
me. Ordinarily I’d have been tortured and 
burned without any ado whatever, for the 
Kiowas had just broken one of their biennial 
peace pacts and I was considered legitimate 
prey. But it was rumored that Kit Carson 
and Ceran St. Vrain were headed that way, 
and even as long ago as that, the Kiowas held 
that combination in wholesome respect.” 



LUCKY SHOT 


179 


“ Go on! ” Ned had paused as though 
thinking of the influence the famous scout 
exerted over his sworn enemies, and Brad was 
impatient. ‘ k What happened? ” 

“ They tied me up and made medicine,” 
his uncle said simply. “ Fresh medicine it 
was, too, which meant that I was trussed up 
without food or water for two days while the 
medicine men gathered the grass under ap¬ 
propriate conditions—this was medicine 
grass, you know, but they can make medicine 
of almost everything under the sun—bound 
it with endless ritual, and at last laid it in a 
circle around the council fire. Brad, I tell 
you that was a scene to remember. The 
flames of the fire rising straight and still into 
the night; the chief and his braves in a circle 
and within that circle the medicine men, old 
and wrinkled, watching the curling of the 
green grass as it writhed in the heat. Be¬ 
yond that inner circle other medicine men, 
fearsomely decked with horns, and painted, 
leaped up and down in a dance of invocation 
to the Great Spirit. At a respectful distance, 




180 


LUCKY SHOT 


the squaws and children squatted, watching 
with excited interest all that went on.” 

4 4 And you—” 

“ I was tied where I could see the whole 
thing, but of course it was all Greek to me— 
those curling medicine grasses, I mean. 
When they curved backward, I didn’t know 
whether that was to be taken as a sign that I 
was to be saved from the flames myself, or 
not. I could only stand there, numb from 
the tightness of my bonds, my tongue parched 
with thirst, hunger torturing me . . . and 
look on. It was—a rather unpleasant expe¬ 
rience,” he finished dryly. 

Brad let out a long breath of excitement. 
44 I should rather think so, What did they 
finally decide? ” 

44 Well, not to burn me, or I shouldn’t be 
here now, showing all this Injun junk to a 
boy that’s pop-eyed with astonishment over 
it. Come along, Brad. We’ll go down to 
the court and see what’s afoot for to-day.” 

44 Hi, Ned, hold on a minute! What’s this 
funny little clay figure—why, it looks like a 






LUCKY SHOT 


181 


dog! And this mug with the bottom gone? 
What do you keep a broken thing like this 
for?” 

Ned came to look over his shoulder at the 
objects the boy had taken from the chest. 

“ That mug and that dog,” he said seri¬ 
ously, “ were taken from a burial place where 
they had been put at least a thousand years 
ago—at least so some scientific fellow in 
Washington wrote me. I sent him some of 
the things we found in those graves, and he 
was all excited about them. Said they be¬ 
longed to a vanished race that lived in Amer¬ 
ica ten or twelve hundred years ago.” 

Brad fingered the little objects with awe. 
“A thousand years old! No wonder the 
mug got broken! ” 

“ But it didn’t ‘ get ’ broken at all,” Ned 
informed him. “ It was ceremonially 
‘ killed ’—that is, the bottom was knocked 
out of it at the death of the owner, so that it 
could never be used again.” 

“ What about the dog? ” Brad asked. 
“ Look, its head is turned halfway over its 



182 LUCKY SHOT 

shoulder as though it were looking back¬ 
ward.” 

Ned explained. “ That means that the 
soul of that person was only half ready to go 
to the Happy Hunting Grounds—or what¬ 
ever heaven that vanished race were bound 
for. In other words, the chap’s moral status 
is defined by the position of the dog’s head. 
If it were completely turned back, you’d 
know the deceased was a bad ’un and his spirit 
a long way from heaven. If the dog looked 
straight ahead, then the person buried was 
of high standing among his fellows, and his 
soul was headed straight for paradise. This 
man, you see, was halfway in between; 
neither very good nor very bad—like a lot 
of us.” 

“ I suppose,” Brad said thoughtfully, 
“ that the dog stands for the chief’s pet . . . 
if it was a chief. They put it into his grave 
instead of killing the animal as some of the 
Indians do, I know.” 

Ned grinned. “ Sorry to spoil that little 
theory of yours, but if you could have seen the 




LUCKY SHOT 


183 


bones buried in with the man—cats and dogs 
and even a horse! This little figure is a fe¬ 
tish, the buried one’s own object of worship 
and protection against evil. It was put into 
the grave with him so no one could deprive 
him of its benefits in the other world.” 

“ How do you know so much about it? ” 

“ The scientist chap I was telling you of 
sent me a book on the subject. You see, be¬ 
ing so close to the place where a lot of these 

4 vanished race ’ people are buried-” 

He was interrupted by Brad’s startled ex¬ 
clamation. 44 Close? Do you mean close to 
here ? To the Fort ? ’ ’ 

44 Why, yes.” Ned was amused at the 
boy’s excitement. 44 It’s only a couple of 
days’ ride from here in good weather. Over 
by Nero Hill. It’s not on the trail to any¬ 
thing in particular and nobody ever goes 
there. I stumbled on the place kind of by 
accident, and I got interested in picking up 
queer things there. That’s all.” 

44 All!” The boy was stammering with 
excitement. 44 Ned, I’d give anything if I 




184 


LUCKY SHOT 


could see that place! I always was inter¬ 
ested in old places—old things that show how 
other people live.” 

“ You wouldn’t have had to go far to find 
’em,” the young man said carelessly, “ if 
you’d been down here when we built this Fort. 
We cut blocks of adobe, you know, and un¬ 
derneath we found all sorts of things—skele¬ 
tons of people and of animals, weapons, cook¬ 
ing utensils, dishes—oh, more stuff than I 
can tell you about.” 

“ If I could just find one thing like that 
for myself-” 

“ Nothing easier! Wait till spring, and 
I’ll take you over to Nero Hill and let you 
do some excavating for yourself! ” 





CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

Spring had come to the Fort. Brad was 
surprised to realize how quickly the winter 
had flown. There had been the almost daily 
advent of parties of hunters, laden with skins 
and full of tales of their adventures. There 
had been weekly candy-pulls and dances, by 
way of diversion. Brad had learned to play 
billiards on the table in the room over the 
gate leading to the blacksmith’s shop and past 
the quarters for special guests. 

The boy felt that he would never come to 
the end of the surprises the Fort held for 
him. Here in this fastness more than five 
hundred miles from civilization was a billiard 
table, the finest that money could buy any¬ 
where. He questioned Ned as to its pres¬ 
ence. 

Ned laughed and shrugged his shoulders 


185 


186 LUCKY SHOT 

in a gesture he had caught from the St. 
Vrains. 

“ It was like this,” he began. “ Bill Bent 
imported a couple of tanners from St. Louis 
—experts they were. You know, Brad, in a 
place of this kind where we handle such an 
enormous number of skins, some of them 
scarce and hard to come by, it’s of the greatest 
importance to have them properly prepared 
for the market. The squaws are all right on 
beaver and wolf and bear, but when it comes 
to silver fox and the rarer kind of otter, the 
French trappers have certain ways that in¬ 
crease the value of the fur. So, as I said, 
Bill Bent brought a couple of Frenchies down 
to look after those pelts.” 

“ And did they bring the billiard table 
along with them? ” 

Ned shook his head. “ Bill sent a train 
special to Independence to bring it after he 
saw his Frenchmen were getting homesick 
here and likely to quit. They’d never been 
out of St. Louis, you see, for all they knew 
so much about furs. They had been taught 



LUCKY SHOT 


187 


to handle the green hides that others brought 
into the city. Bent was anxious to keep ’em, 
so he wrote to a firm in St. Louis and ordered 
the table sent to Independence by boat and 
there the wagon train picked it up and packed 
it all the way down here. Guess it was worth 
the trouble, though. The Frenchies are still 
here and happy—you know ’em, they’re An¬ 
toine and Marcel—and lots of other folks be¬ 
sides have enjoyed that table, too.” 

“ Don’t the Indians ever play? I notice 
the Mexicans-” 

“ Oh, the Mexes take to it like ducks to 
water. Some of our best players are Mexi¬ 
cans. But you can’t teach an Indian to hold 
a cue, much less to play a game. Queer, too. 
You’d think their skill with the lance and bow 
would stand them in good stead here, but it 
doesn’t.” 

The first train out from the East was due 
and all within the Fort eagerly watched its 
coming. It meant not only fresh supplies 
of food and shoes and shirts, but mail; and 
news of what had been going on all winter in 





188 


LUCKY SHOT 


the world. The Fort had been completely 
shut off from all contacts save with trappers’ 
camps and Indian encampments since last 
fall. Whether there was still a government 
at Washington, whether the kings and queens 
of Europe still wore their crowns, whether, 
in fact, anybody lived in that half mythical 
place known as “ back East,” those within 
the adobe walls were ignorant. 

A tragic incident marked the arrival of 
this first train, one which was to give Brad 
his first real sympathy with the Indian under 
the rule of the white man. 

“ Wagons in sight! ” yelled a patrol late 
one April afternoon from his place on the 
battlements. 

Instantly the Fort sprang to activity. 
April rarely if ever saw the advent of a wagon 
train. As a usual thing, the first ones did 
not push through until late in May, and 
everybody was agog with excitement and de¬ 
sire to welcome these early comers. 

“ I’ll bet it’s despatches from the Govern¬ 
ment,” Ned speculated. “ Bent’s expecting 


LUCKY SHOT 


189 


some, I know—about the new Kiowa peace. 
If so, there’ll be a soldier guard in front of 
the wagons.” 

“ Old Tobacco,” with a grin of delight at 
the prospect of fresh “ chaws,” mounted his 
pony and rode along the trail to meet the 
train. What happened, those within the 
Fort learned later from the old Indian’s dy¬ 
ing lips. 

Ned was right in believing that a soldier 
guard accompanied the wagons. Trouble 
was brewing with the Indians in the north 
and west, and the guard had been ordered to 
shoot at sight any redskin who showed hostile 
intent. When Old Tobacco came toward 
them, arm high in greeting, the captain of the 
guard raised and lowered his hand as a com¬ 
mand to the old man to go back. The cap¬ 
tain’s ignorance of the Indian sign language 
was Tobacco’s undoing. The gesture used 
by the captain meant “ Come on! ” and To¬ 
bacco came on confidently, happy in the hope 
of favors to come. 

Again the captain signaled, not knowing 



190 


LUCKY SHOT 


that his hand should have been held palm out¬ 
ward instead of palm down and that he was 
unwittingly beckoning the Indian to his 
death. When Tobacco persisted in pushing 
forward in what the soldier guard considered 
direct defiance of warning, the command to 
fire was given and the ancient chief fell with 
three bullets in his body. 

Great was the wrath and grief within the 
Fort when Tobacco was borne within the 
gates, conscious but unmistakably dying. 
William Bent in particular was outraged at 
the ignorance which had mistaken the old 
man’s trust in the advancing train for hos¬ 
tility toward it. 

“ But we were given orders to fire if any 
Indian did not obey the sign to go back,” pro¬ 
tested the captain. The angry reception he 
and his men had received was a source of deep¬ 
est chagrin to him. He was a young fellow, 
somewhat swollen with the sense of his own 
temporary importance, and eager to show 
the owner of the Fort that he could handle 
Indians with the best of them. The verbal 


LUCKY SHOT 


191 


drubbing he now received from Bent made 
him crimson with embarrassment. 

“ Better learn the Indian signs before you 
make so free with your shooting-irons/’ Bent 
concluded in a growl. “ The old chap was 
signaling his friendly intentions. You dis¬ 
tinctly told him to come on. And then— 
you shot him. Oh, I know you thought you 
were telling him to go back; but down here it 
isn’t what a man thinks but what he does that 
counts. Poor Old Tobacco! He can’t un¬ 
derstand yet why this should have happened 
to him.” 

“ Is he still conscious? Can’t you make 
him understand that it was all a mistake? ” 

Bent’s expression of stern anger softened. 
The captain was plainly distressed at the in¬ 
cident, anxious to atone for his mistake so 
far as lay within his power. 

“ Come along! ” Bent rose suddenly. 
“ I’ll take you to him and interpret anything 
you want to say. He’s pretty far gone, but 
I guess he can still hear my voice.” 

His assumption was correct. The old 



192 


LUCKY SHOT 


man turned eyes which were fast glazing to¬ 
ward his friend and feebly held up a palm in 
a sign of friendly greeting. 

“ Talk fast,” Bent advised the captain. 
“ He can’t last much longer.” 

“ Tell him,” the soldier faltered, “ that I 
made a mistake; that it was my ignorance— 
an ignorance which should have been enlight¬ 
ened before I was sent down here—that 
caused it all. Ask him if he will forgive me, 
and if there is anything I can do to make up 
for it, even a little.” 

Bent translated rapidly and in return Old 
Tobacco muttered a few incoherent sentences. 

“ He says—” in spite of his genuine grief 
Bent could not keep his lips from curving 
mirthfully—“ that he’d like some tobacco— 
enough to cover his body, is the way he puts it 
—placed in his grave so that he won’t lack 
for a ‘ chaw ’ on his journey to the Happy 
Hunting Grounds.” 

The captain wiped his brow. “ Tell him 
he shall have it—if I have to make every man 
jack of the guard stick in his entire supply! ” 








LUCKY SHOT 


193 


Evidently the prospect of a well-provi¬ 
sioned journey to the other world consoled 
the Indian for leaving this one. He died 
with a smile on his face and his hand still held 
in its gesture of friendly greeting. 

Bent, despite his momentary amusement at 
the odd request of the dying man, was wor¬ 
ried and sad over the incident, and presently 
the reason developed. A runner came in 
from the Big Timbers and was closeted with 
the owner of the Fort for some time. At the 
end of the conference Bent summoned Ned 
and Brad. 

“ Trouble with the Cheyennes,” he an¬ 
nounced briefly. 

“ With the Cheyennes! ” Ned’s tone was 
incredulous. “ Why, we’ve never had 
trouble with the Cheyennes since—” he 
stopped in sudden embarrassment. 

“ Since Carson and I took wives from 
among ’em,” Bent finished for him. “ No, 
we’ve always lived in peace and friendship 
with our brothers at the Big Timbers, but 


now 




194 


LUCKY SHOT 


44 Old Tobacco’s death, of course? ” 

Bent nodded. “ The young bucks are 
taking it hard. They say Tobacco trusted 
the white man, and the white man slew him 
treacherously—which is all too near the truth, 
if you ask me. The chiefs—the older ones, 
at any rate—are trying to hold the young 
ones down, but the paint pots are being taken 
out and the war dances are being begun.” 

Ned shared his gravity. “ If it’s actually 
gone that far, there’s only one thing to be 

done. Send for Kit and-” 

“ Kit’s on his way here now—or should be 
—with the meat from the spring hunt. If 
he gets in before to-night, you and he and I 
will ride down the river and take council with 
the chiefs.” 

“ Is it safe? ” Brad asked. “ You’ll be 

only three, and they’ll be hundreds-” 

“ We’ll not go clear to the camp,” Bent ex¬ 
plained. 44 The runner who j ust came in said 
Big Elk and Blue Horse are waiting on the 
trail to talk the situation over with us. We’ll 
go as soon as Kit gets in.” 








LUCKY SHOT 


195 


“ And if Kit doesn’t come to-night? ” Ned 
asked. 

“ Then there’s nothing for it but for you 
and me to go. I hope Carson’ll get home, 
though. The Indians have an affection for 
me—or so I like to think—and the young 
bucks like you, Ned. But Kit—well, they 
regard him with a mixture of awe and fear 
that’s very helpful to us. They believe that 
it’s never any use attacking when he’s at the 
head of any war party. If he’s absent—well, 
it’s their numbers against our skill.” 

“ And the soldiers—that captain and the 
guard that are responsible for all this—have 
gone on down to Taos and left us to bear the 
consequences of their act alone!” Brad’s 
tone was indignant. The death of the 
friendly old Indian had made a deep impres¬ 
sion on him. 

“ I’m only too glad that they have gone,” 
Bent told him. “ Their very presence here 
at the Fort enraged the Indians. No, if we 
can get Kit to parley with them, I believe we 
can smooth ’em down.” 





196 


LUCKY SHOT 


Ned suddenly chuckled. “ Remember, 
Bill, the time the Crows attempted to drive 
off the horses and mules Kit had taken with 
him when he went down to the Big Timbers 
to cut logs to build the Fort? ” 

“ Reckon I do,” Bent laughed. “ The 
Crows haven’t forgotten it, either.” 

Brad made an imploring gesture. “ Tell 
me! I don’t want to miss a single story 
about Carson and the Indians.” 

“ You’d have to sit and listen for a year,” 
Ned said, “ and then I wouldn’t guarantee 
that you’d heard ’em all. This time—well, 
Bill there can tell you about it better than I 
can. Fire ahead, Bill! ” 

Bent settled back in his chair, as relaxed 
and apparently as care-free as though he 
were not facing, for the first time in his ten 
years at the Fort, an uprising among the 
tribe to which he was related, by marriage, at 
least. Brad had noticed before this, the 
man’s enviable faculty of dismissing his 
troubles until action was required. All sea¬ 
soned Indian fighters, the boy came to be- 


LUCKY SHOT 


197 


lieve, possessed this ability, even as they were 
able to drop instantly to sleep at will, or to 
watch for long periods without fatigue. 

“ Kit had taken about a dozen men— 
mostly Mex, they were—down to the Big 
Timbers, as Ned says, to cut logs for the 
Fort. He took the herd along for two rea¬ 
sons. One was that it wasn’t safe to leave 
’em here with only me and half a dozen men, 
who were busy working to guard ’em, and the 
other was that he wanted to load all the timber 
he could and bring it back at one time.” 

“ About sixty—horses and mules—weren’t 
there? ” Ned interpolated. 

“ Sixty, or thereabouts. Well, Kit and 
his men were busy with their axes and saws 
when up rushed a party of Crows, all fixed 
and determined to drive off the herd—and 
drive ’em they did, spite of Kit’s yelling to 
’em to vamoose. It happened that a couple 
of Cheyennes had been visiting the camp 
where Kit was, and they were still mounted 
—the only two blamed horses the Crows 
didn’t get. 







198 


LUCKY SHOT 


“ The thieves figured Kit wasn’t very 
likely to follow them—on foot, you see, and 
with a dozen men against nearly a hundred— 
so they went down the river a little way and 
camped for the night. But they didn’t know 
Kit—then! He came a-rarin’ after them 
and poured such a lively fire of bullets into 
them that they didn’t even stop to grab their 
own weapons before putting as much ground 
as possible between their skins and Kit’s new 
kind of rain.” 

Brad was listening breathlessly. “ And 
the horses and mules? ” 

“ The Cheyennes—remember I said they 
were mounted—cut in behind the herd and 
started it back toward Kit’s camp. Not a 
single horse was lost, and it taught the Crows 
a valuable lesson. They’ve had a heap of 
respect for the Little Fierce Man, as they 
call him, ever since.” 

“ And Carson was—how old? ” 

“ Sixteen,” Bent told him. 

“ Just my age.” Brad sat without speak¬ 
ing for a moment, trying to realize that the 






LUCKY SHOT 


199 


soft-spoken, gentle-mannered man whom he 
knew, had been, even in his boyhood, so ag¬ 
gressive, resourceful and prompt to act. 

There was a knock at the door and a sentry 
entered. 

“ A party of hunters in sight, sir,” he re¬ 
ported. 

“ Carson? ” Bent asked, brightening. 

“ Can’t tell yet, but it looks like it.” 

It was Carson, spent with a long week’s 
steady riding and wanting nothing so much 
as a hot supper and bed. When he heard of 
the situation among the Cheyennes, however, 
he delayed only long enough to eat a much- 
needed meal, and then, with Bent and Ned 
Hundley, he rode out again to take council 
with Big Elk and Blue Horse where they 
waited, in patient dignity, halfway down the 
trail to the Big Timbers. 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 


The three men returned to the Fort the 
next day greatly troubled at the situation. 
Blue Horse and Big Elk had not concealed 
from them the seriousness of the Cheyennes’ 
attitude. 

“ A new generation has grown up since the 
peace their fathers and I made twelve years 
ago,” Bent said heavily. “ The young 
bucks know nothing of what warfare with 
the whites means. They’ve forgotten, if 
they ever realized, the severe lessons we had to 
teach them before they came to respect the 
Fort and the men in it. They are looking 
with covetous eyes on our rifles and ammuni¬ 
tion. They complain that the Pawnees are 
given more guns than they are able to trade 
for with us. They think of our well-filled 
meat-house, and their mouths water for the 
steaks and buffalo tongue stored there.” 


200 


LUCKY SHOT 


201 


Carson spoke morosely. “ Worse than 
that, they’ve renewed their old alliance with 
the Sioux. You can trust a Cheyenne— 
as far as you can trust any Injun. But a 
Sioux—” He spat disgustedly. 

44 What will happen? ” 

Try as he would, Brad could not wholly 
keep the pleasurable excitement from his 
voice. An Indian uprising, and he safe 
within the armed defences of the Fort, would 
be something to remember all his life. He 
thrilled to the possibilities of it. Why, they 
might even yet be compelled to make use of 
the underground passage to the ice-house! 
He hoped in that case the dangerous task 
would be assigned to him. His boyish im¬ 
agination pictured a lonely and heroic fig¬ 
ure, making his stealthy way to the well-filled 
storehouse, bringing back to the beleaguered 
residents of the Fort the food so badly needed 
in their siege. 

44 Nothing much, I reckon! ” His young 
uncle grinned at him derisively, reading his 
thoughts. 44 There’ll be a few powwows and 



202 


LUCKY SHOT 


a good many council fires burned, and parties 
sent to talk things over with us. Maybe a 
few of the young bucks’ll fire a few shots at 
the walls and Bent’ll let off the cannon a 
couple of times just to scare ’em—that’ll be 
about all.” 

44 There’s something brewing among the 
Indians,” Carson reported a day or two later. 
44 I don’t altogether like the looks of it, Bent.” 

44 Signs of hostility? ” 

44 N-no—you couldn’t call it that, exactly. 
They just seem to be full of some idea of their 
own—not to be interested and curious as they 
usually are about what’s going on here.” 

Bim Black had his own contribution to 
make to the general uneasiness within the 
F ort. 

44 I smell Comanches,” he reported one 
morning as he walked about the ramparts. 
And later, 44 I smell ’Rapahoes an’ LTtes an’ 
Kiowas an’-” 

44 Hold on there,” the sentry jeered. 
44 You can’t smell all the Injuns of earth at 
one time. Pick out a tribe—or I’ll allow 






LUCKY SHOT 


203 


you two-three tribes,” he concluded gener¬ 
ously—“ and stick to it, but don’t go smell¬ 
ing so many at once.” 

That night the gates of the Fort closed 
upon the fewest number of Indians Bent 
could remember within its walls. He re¬ 
marked the fact uneasily, and doubled the 
number of patrols on the battlements. 

Just before dawn everybody was startled 
to hear the bugles ringing out from the south¬ 
west bastion. Bent appeared with a prompt¬ 
ness which suggested he had not removed his 
clothes during the night. Carson and Ned 
Hundley were not far behind, and Brad 
came, struggling into his hunting shirt as he 
walked. 

“ Injuns! ” reported the sentry who came 
to the upstairs room and saluted. “ Thou¬ 
sands and thousands of Injuns coming over 
the plain.” 

Brad followed the three men eagerly as 
they went upstairs. Several of the hunters 
were taking turns looking through the spy¬ 
glass which was trained on the prairie, but 



204 


LUCKY SHOT 


the keen vision of the three who had gazed 
from those battlements for so long needed no 
supplementary aid. And indeed before long, 
even Brad could discern the swiftly moving 
hordes which were pouring along the stretch 
between the Fort and the river. 

“ Look to the south,” Carson said quietly. 
“ Crows! Comanches, too, looks like, as near 
as I can make out.” 

“ Injuns to the east, sir,” another sentry 
reported. 

“ Kiowas? ” Bent asked. 

“ Looks to be, sir.” 

“ An attack or a bluff, do you reckon? ” 
It was Ned Hundley who spoke. 

“ Can’t tell yet. We’ll prepare for the 
worst, at any rate.” 

The owner of the Fort gave quiet orders 
which were at once carried out. The gates 
had not been opened and the brass cannon 
was still inside. Men with loaded rifles were 
stationed at every loophole. The patrols 
stood beside their cannon with matches ready 
to touch off the powder. The few Indians 


LUCKY SHOT 205 

within the Fort were herded into the corral 
despite their protestations of loyalty. 

Owl Woman, Bent’s Cheyenne wife, 
rocked herself to and fro, wailing in anticipa¬ 
tion of the coming conflict. Bent stopped 
to speak a few words of reassurance to her. 

Down in the courtyard Brad came upon a 
tragic figure. It was the sad Sioux wife of 
Sopris, the wagon master. She had never 
become reconciled to her exile, and spent her 
time gazing wistfully northward toward the 
land of the Dakotas. Years had softened 
her longing for her own people, yet the 
knowledge that now they were surging to¬ 
ward the Fort in great numbers stirred her 
wish to see familiar faces once more. She 
crouched in the shadow of the hide-press, not 
wailing like Owl Woman, but with arms 
crossed on her breast and black head bent al¬ 
most to the adobe floor of the patio. Her 
half-breed babies tugged in vain at her 
fringed and beaded skirt. 

“ Better stay up on the roofs, Brad,” his 
uncle advised. “ This is a sight you’ll never 


206 


LUCKY SHOT 


see again. I verily believe every Indian in 
the northwest is pouring down upon the 
Fort” 

Brad ran up the rude steps quickly, and 
stood dumfounded as he gazed. 

The green prairie, covered now with fresh 
grass, was alive with a sea of horsemen flow¬ 
ing steadily in the direction of the Fort. 
The sun shone on ornaments of polished brass 
or gold, on bright bits of shell, on the gay 
trappings of horses, dazzling the onlooker’s 
eye. 

Color—Brad wondered if ever before he 
had seen so much color, or would again— 
undulating, quivering, advancing and reced¬ 
ing with the motion of the wearer’s mount. 
The red blankets of the Sioux, the striped 
blue and yellow of the Comanches, the parti- 
colors of the Kiowas, even the brick red and 
black of the few Navahoes who had crossed 
the river to join in the great gathering, 
formed a mosaic which the boy would never 
forget. 

“ It must be all the Indians in the world! ” 



LUCKY SHOT 


207 


he gasped. “Ned! Will the Fort hold 
out? ” For the first time a feeling of fear 
damped his excitement. If all those advanc¬ 
ing figures were to close in upon the adobe 
walls, what chance would there be to resist 
the sheer force of numbers ? 

“ We don’t know yet that it is an attack,” 
Ned answered reassuringly. “ It looks more 
like a council to me. See, they’re getting 
closer now. There are no war bonnets in 
sight, no war paint on the naked braves. 
I’ll warrant they have all their regalia with 
them, though, and will don it instanter if the 
council doesn’t go to suit ’em.” 

“ Council among themselves, or with 
Bent?” 

“ With Bent—eventually. They’ll do a 
lot of powwowing among themselves first, I 
reckon. Don’t worry, Brad. Bill Bent 
knows how to handle ’em. At the worst, 
they couldn’t do more than pen us in here, 
and we can stand off a siege for a year, if 
necessary.” 

In spite of his encouraging words, Ned’s 



208 


LUCKY SHOT 


eyes seldom left the advancing hordes before 
them. All that day and all night and for 
two days and nights after, the mighty sea 
continued to flow toward the Fort. To 
Brad’s astonishment, it stopped within a hun¬ 
dred yards of the walls, leaving a clear space 
on all four sides. Sentries from the various 
Indian tribes patrolled the edge of this space. 

Miraculously the gigantic encampment as¬ 
sumed an aspect of order. Tepees sprung 
up as though by magic, the form and coloring 
indicating in most cases the identity of the 
tribes. A great wheel, of which the Fort 
was the hub, spread out over the plain, the 
narrow lanes which divided Sioux from Crow 
and Cheyenne from Kiowa, forming the 
spokes. Necessarily one side of this wheel 
was flattened by the Arkansas River. 

It was, as Ned Hundley had said, a sight 
to be seen only once in a lifetime. 

Those within the Fort preserved a cautious 
indifference to the preparations without. 
The gates were kept fast shut, the rifles were 
never withdrawn from the loopholes. Sen- 


LUCKY SHOT 


209 


tries, heavily and rather spectacularly armed, 
paraded ostentatiously on the ramparts, and 
reveille and taps rang out with military pre¬ 
cision night and morning. In fact, Bent’s 
Fort resembled as never before a Govern¬ 
ment fastness rather than the private enter¬ 
prise of a party of St. Louis traders that it 
was. 

The policy of indifference within the Fort 
was matched by the behavior of the Indians 
without it. Camp fires burned steadily, 
ceremonial dances went on night and day, 
chants rose and fell with monotonous regu¬ 
larity, but not a redskin applied for admis¬ 
sion at the gates, or allowed his gaze to rest 
unduly long on the walls of the white man’s 
dwelling-place. 

At the end of the third day of ordered ac¬ 
tivity outside the Fort, a messenger knocked 
with great pomp and ceremony at the East 
gate and was bidden to enter. He came in 
fearlessly, his bold gaze roving from one 
strange object to another. This was his first 
contact with the white man, and his curiosity 


210 


LUCKY SHOT 


almost overrode the dignity of his errand. 
He demanded, in guttural Kiowa speech, to 
be taken to William Bent. 

In that upper chamber which had been the 
scene of so many diplomatic conferences, 
Bent received him. Carson and Ned were 
also present and an Indian interpreter, in 
case his services should be needed. Bent, 
however, had no difficulty in understanding 
the simple message borne by the Kiowa. 

The vast gathering on the plains, he told 
them, was one looking toward a universal 
peace. Peace among all his brothers, he em¬ 
phasized. All tribes were to bury the 
hatchet, war bonnets were to be hung on the 
poles of the tepees as relics to be handed down 
to the children’s children, the scalping-knife 
and torture weapons were to be turned to 
peaceful uses. 

“ M’mph! ” grunted Kit Carson. “ Go¬ 
ing to have heaven right down here on earth. 
How many tribes are thinking of going into 

this Sunday School class? ” 

& 

“ Kiowas, Sioux, Cheyennes,” the mes- 


LUCKY SHOT 211 

senger ran off glibly. “ Crows, Arapahoes 

“ Hey! Hold on a minute! ’Rapahoes, 
did you say? That settles it! Any peace 
the ’Rapahoes—” 

“ Careful, Kit! ” Bent warned in English. 
“ He may understand more than we realize.” 

The doughty little Indian fighter edged 
forward in his chair. 

“ Lemme ask him just this one question, 
Bill,” he said. “ Are the Pawnees joinin’ up 
in this precious peace pact, too? ” 

“ Pawnees, Iroquois, Comanches! ” The 
round head, shaven save for the upstanding 
scalp lock, bobbed assentingly. “ Apaches, 
N avahoes ” 

“ In fact, the lion and the lamb, the cat and 
the mouse, the snake and the bird—all 
the whole shooting match are going to set 
up housekeeping together.” Carson rose. 
“ Bill, I wouldn’t have any truck with such 
foolishness, if I was you. This here’s the 
regular ten-year play-party of the northwest 
tribes. They get it up like one of them 





212 


LUCKY SHOT 


draymas the boys tell about seem’ in St. 
Louis, and enjoy themselves a heap while it’s 
going on. Then they turn ’round and drive 
their hatchets into each other’s skulls as per 
usual. All is, they happened to pick out the 
vicinity of the Fort to use for their stage this 
time.” 

The Kiowa messenger stolidly ignored the 
interruption in a strange tongue. With 
flowery phrases of flattery he invited Bent to 
come out to the all-night council to be held, a 
council which would be attended by repre¬ 
sentatives from each of the tribes there as¬ 
sembled. 

“ Don’t go, Bill,” Hundley warned him. 
“ It’s plain suicide, trusting yourself outside 
the Fort among those thousands of redskins. 
Tell the man that his white brothers are glad 
of the impending peace among the red men, 
but that it is after all the red man’s affair and 
not ours.” 

Bent shook his head. “ They would take 
a refusal as an insult. Like Kit, I’m always 
suspicious of the sincerity and permanency 


LUCKY SHOT 


213 


of these wholesale peace resolutions, but at 
least they are effective while they last. Tell 
the noble chiefs assembled at your council 
fires,” he said in Kiowa, “ that their brother, 
the white man, will come to the meeting-place 
when darkness falls. Tell them that he will 
come alone and unarmed, trusting himself to 
the protection of his brothers, the Cheyennes 

and the Kiowas and the Sioux-” 

“ And the ’Rapahoes and Pawnees,” Car- 
son interrupted derisively. 

“ Tell him that the gates of the Fort will 

be closed behind me and-” 

“ Every rifle on the place trained on that 
council fire in case of any monkey business! ” 
Bent shook his head, half in amusement, 
half in annoyance, at his young lieutenant. 
The older man inclined wherever possible to 
pacific measures with the Indians. Carson, 
on the other hand, believed that only by a con¬ 
stant show of force could the respect of the 
Indians for the whites be maintained; and 
certainly every time Bent had departed from 
Carson’s counsel he had regretted it. 




214 


LUCKY SHOT 


Together William Bent and Christopher 
Carson made a pair whose influence over the 
southwest and northwest Indians can never 
be entirely estimated. Brad realized their 
potency vaguely as he watched the gates be¬ 
ing opened at dusk for Bent’s departure from 
the Fort. 

It was impressively dramatic—that soli¬ 
tary journey of the white man across the fire- 
lighted neutral territory which separated the 
walls of the Fort from the first line of the 
Indian encampment. A tall, impressive fig¬ 
ure was William Bent, his hair as glossily 
black as a crow’s, his shoulders as straight as 
an Indian’s. He moved softly and lithely in 
his soft calfskin boots. 

The group of chieftains about the central 
fire parted to admit him. For a moment the 
leaping flames showed him clearly, then the 
ranks of painted and blanketed Indians 
closed upon him. 



CHAPTER FIFTEEN 

Dawn saw the white men on the battle¬ 
ments of the Fort, anxiously scanning the en¬ 
campment outside. There had been noth¬ 
ing to indicate during the night that harm had 
come to William Bent. 

True, the monotonous boom of the parch¬ 
ment-covered drums had gone on for hours 
and the yells and howls of the medicine men 
had never ceased. Under cover of these 
sounds Bent’s cries for help—supposing that 
he had had time to cry out before a Sioux ar¬ 
row or an Arapahoe lance had stilled his voice 
forever—would not have been heard. 

But as the first rays of the sun shone on the 
cactus plants which grew on the roofs of the 
Fort, Bent was seen composedly crossing the 
space before the gates. At once the heavy 
plank doors swung open to admit him, and 


215 




216 


LUCKY SHOT 


Carson and the two Hundleys descended to 
Bent’s own room where Andrew Green, his 
teeth gleaming rapturously in his black face 
at the return of his beloved master, was bring¬ 
ing the best available hot food to the table for 
his refreshment. 

“ Well,” began Carson, “ did you play-act, 
too, with the rest of ’em? Have you sworn 
blood kinship with the ’Rapahoes, to say 
nothing of the Pawnees? ” 

“ Something like that,” Bent answered 
equably, taking the cup of hot coffee his serv¬ 
ant offered him. “ It’s the ten-year uni¬ 
versal peace council you spoke of, Kit. I 
never happened to run across its actual cere¬ 
monial before, though I’ve heard of it, of 
course. It seems that the site of the Port 
was chosen out of compliment to us—well, to 
me, to be strictly honest. Big Elk and Blue 
Horse of the Cheyennes, and Six Rattles of 
the Sioux and several of the Comanche chiefs 
have sort of spread the word that we deal 
justly if somewhat severely—” he grinned 
at Carson—“ with the red man, and it was 





LUCKY SHOT 


217 

decided that the council fires should be 
lighted within sight of the Fort. Also,” he 
said impressively, “ that any questions of ar¬ 
bitration should be referred to me.” 

Carson rose from his chair as though on 
springs. 

“ Bill, you ain’t a-goin’ to be a big enough 
fool-” 

“ You’re right I’m not,” his senior said 
emphatically. “ I’ve got better sense than 
to run my head into a noose deliberately. I 
made a speech—wish you fellows could have 
heard me! It was a regular oration, if I do 
say so myself—and I told them that their 
white brother was touched and honored by 
the compliment they had paid him; that he 
rejoiced in the burying of the hatchets be¬ 
tween tribes which had always been his 
friends—” 

“ Huh!” Kit snorted. 

“ And that his wisdom, though great, was 
unequal to that of their own chieftains in the 
matter of Indian affairs, and therefore he 
would leave the peace terms entirely to them, 





218 


LUCKY SHOT 


confident that peace would dwell among them 
as the bird dwells happily in its nest-” 

“ And for about as long, too,” put in the 
irrepressible Carson. 

“ And that the moon of blossoms would see 
friendship from the Cimarron to the North 
Platte. I’ll tell you one thing, Kit,” Bent 
went on, dropping his eloquence for every¬ 
day speech. “ This peace shindig is the very 
best thing that ever happened to us. The 
Cheyennes have forgotten their resentment 
over Old Tobacco’s death, and all danger of 
an uprising among them is over.” He 
sighed with patent relief. “ I’ll admit, 
now that it is over, I was kind of wrought up 
when the tribes began to gather. It might 
be a peace conference and it might be—a 
general massacre. I couldn’t tell how far 
the war talk had spread, you see. And if 
the Cheyennes, the most peaceable of all the 
Indians we have dealings with, were angered 
against us, it would touch off a spark among 
the other tribes that would likely have blown 
us up and the Fort with us.” He relaxed in 




LUCKY SHOT 


219 


his chair, visibly pleased with the present as¬ 
pect of things. 

“ How much longer is this powwow to 
last? ” Ned jerked a thumb toward the 
outer wall. 

“ Three more days,” Bent told him. 
“ I’ve invited in a few chiefs from each 
tribe-” 

“ How many altogether? ” 

“ About fifty, I believe.” He turned to 
Andrew Green. “ Send Owl Woman to me 
—and Charlotte and Rosalie and any of the 
Indian women who happen to be hanging 
around. I’m going to give the visitors a big 
feed,” he explained to the other men. 
“ Afterwards I’ll show them around the Fort, 
let them look through the spyglass-” 

“ And fire a few salutes in their honor,” 
Brad ventured to suggest eagerly. “ That’ll 
show ’em we have plenty of guns and can de¬ 
fend ourselves.” 

Bent shook his head with a kind smile at 
the boy. 

“ The very last thing I’d dare to do, Brad. 





220 


LUCKY SHOT 


Think a minute! Fifty of their leaders in¬ 
side the walls—and many of the Indians who 
have come here for the first time are suspi¬ 
cious of the Fort, even though they have been 
told we are friendly. The roar of the can¬ 
non bursts forth, flames and smoke are 
seen . . . what do you think the thousands 
and thousands of Indians outside would make 
of it all? They would believe that their 
chieftains were being killed—tortured, of 
course. The Fort wouldn’t last half an hour 
under the assault which would follow.” 

Brad hung his head, abashed. Every day 
he realized more clearly how little he knew of 
the proper way to deal with the Indians, how 
experienced and wise were these men who had 
built the Fort. Seeing his embarrassment, 
Bent went on: 

“ I want your help, Brad. I want to get 
up some sort of entertainment for them. 
Music—the Mexicans can sing and play their 
guitars and I’d like right well to have you 
give us some tunes on that harmonica of 
yours. Will you do it, my boy? Play 




LUCKY SHOT 


221 


some of the jiggety things I hear you giving 
the boys out in the corral.” 

The time of the ceremonial visit had been 
fixed for afternoon, but long before that time 
the blanketed chiefs were at the gate, waiting 
in dignified silence until they should be ad¬ 
mitted. 

Within the Fort all was frenzied activity. 
Every cook-pot on the place was simmering 
over a fire, and enough dried buffalo meat was 
cooking to feed an army, Brad considered. 
Bread was being shaped into flat loaves by 
dusky and bronze hands alike, as Charlotte 
impressed both the squaws and the Mexican 
women into her service. She waddled excit¬ 
edly about, giving orders, exhorting her 
helpers, screaming at Andrew to speed up 
his work of making into a mighty chowder 
the fish which had lain between blocks of ice 
all winter. Men came and went between the 
ice-house and the Fort with load after load 
of supplies. 

“ Fire water? ” Ned inquired of William 
Bent significantly. 


222 


LUCKY SHOT 


“ Not a drop,” answered Bent firmly. “ I 
know they’ll want it, perhaps feel insulted if 
they don’t get it, but I can’t risk it, Ned. 
One drink, and some of these Indians go wild. 
Lock up every keg of whiskey and bring me 
the keys. Tell the men they are not to men¬ 
tion the word, and if any of the chiefs ques¬ 
tion them, they are to shake their heads as 
though they know nothing about it. The 
situation is ticklish enough without adding 
the menace of whiskey.” 

By two o’clock the food was ready to be 
served, a process accomplished by the simple 
expedient of taking the kettles from the fire 
and beckoning the guests to help themselves. 
In most cases the chiefs had brought along 
their own dishes—a turtle shell, a pottery 
bowl, occasionally a tin army plate, the acqui¬ 
sition of which it was wiser not to inquire into; 
but if any guest lacked a food receptacle, he 
merely waited until the stew was partly cool 
and then dipped his hand into it and pro¬ 
ceeded industriously with his meal. 

After dinner came the impromptu enter- 



LUCKY SHOT 


223 


tainment. Two of the Frenchmen put on a 
fencing bout and the Indians watched stol¬ 
idly while the sabres glanced and feinted, 
flashing menacingly in the spring sunshine. 
Grunts of approval greeted the quickness of 
the fencers, but when the performance ended 
without bloodshed on either side, they were 
clearly disappointed. 

“ They’ll like the next act, though,” said 
Ned, who had arranged it. 

Two of the Cheyennes who had wives 
within the Fort now came forward, their 
bronze bodies gleaming with grease. They 
were wrestlers, and white and red men alike 
howled with mirth to see their slippery bodies 
vainly clutched at by equally slippery hands. 
When at last one man gripped his opponent 
by his coarse black hair, and with this vantage 
hold managed to grip a muscular arm about 
his waist and throw him, the courtyard rang 
with the approving yells of the spectators. 

“ You next, Brad,” said his uncle in an un¬ 
dertone. “ Don’t be scared, boy! Play ’em 
something loud and lively! ” 


224 


LUCKY SHOT 


For a moment Brad’s composure almost 
deserted him. He found himself within a 
ring of squatting forms, every cold black eye 
regarding him intently, every painted face 
caref ully expressionless. But above the ring 
of shaven and bedecked heads he saw Carson, 
watching him. 

Here, the boy told himself, was an oppor¬ 
tunity to show his hero that he had profited 
by his months at the Fort. He would treat 
these Indians with Carson’s own mixture of 
severity and good nature ... at least, he 
amended modestly, he would try hard for 
that difficult combination. 

He put the harmonica to his lips, drew a 
long breath and burst into the strains of Ol’ 
Dan Tucker. 

“ OP Dan Tucker down in town, 

Swingin’ the ladies all aroun’, 

First to the right, an’ then to the left, 

An’ then to the one that you love best.” 

“ Hi! Yi! ” yelled the bearded trappers 
and sang lustily the words of the next two 


verses. 


LUCKY SHOT 


225 


66 OP Dan Tucker is a fine oP man, 

Washed his face in a fryin’-pan, 

Combed his hair with a wagon-wheel, 

An’ died with a toothache in his heel. 

6i OP Dan Tucker down in town, 

A-ridin’ a goat an’ a-leadin’ a houn’. 

The houn’ give a howl an’ th’ goat give a jump, 
An’ throwed OP Dan a-straddle of a stump.” 

Loudly the chorus rang through the patio, 
the Mexicans’ musical voices leading the rest, 
though they made queer work of the words. 

“ Git out o’ th’ way for OP Dan Tucker, 

He’s too late to git his supper, 

Supper’s over, an’ breakfast’s a-cookin’, 

An’ OP Dan Tucker’s standin’ lookin’.” 

The song, which had been written by a 
black-face minstrel who was later to become 
famous as the author of “ Dixie,” had made 
its appearance in Missouri just before Brad 
left St. Joseph. All along the Santa Fe 
Trail to the point where it diverged for Bent’s 
Fort the boy had played it, the rollicking 
strains finding favor with every man in the 
wagon train. 


226 


LUCKY SHOT 


Down to Taos the catchy tune went, car¬ 
ried there by Captain Blunt and his men. 
Practically every hunting party which left 
the Fort that winter had a member in it who 
whistled or sang it; and thus the song which 
was not to enter vaudeville in the East until 
four years later was already well known in 
the desert wastes and mountain trails of the 
Western world. 

So pleased with Brad’s contribution to the 
entertainment were the hosts themselves that 
they clamored for more and more, and Car- 
son, seeing by the faces of the chiefs that they, 
too, were enjoying the strange music, nodded 
to the boy to go on. He played until his lips 
were dry and his tongue stiff but as he sank 
down on the adobe floor, completely ex¬ 
hausted, he was rewarded by Kit’s hand on 
his shoulder and Kit’s drawling voice in his 
ear: 

“ Good medicine, Brad! They liked it the 
best of anything yet! ” 

Brad’s playing had a ludicrous yet mo¬ 
mentarily threatening result. When the 


LUCKY SHOT 


227 


visit was ended and the chieftains, having re¬ 
ceived gifts of small mirrors and shells and 
pieces of gay calico, were leaving, Brad dis¬ 
covered that his beloved harmonica had been 
taken from the pocket of his coat. Without 
pausing to consider the advisability of con¬ 
cealing his loss, he mentioned it to the wagon- 
master. 

Now it happened that Sopris was an in¬ 
ordinate lover of music, and the prospect of 
being deprived of the strains of the harmonica 
for the rest of Brad’s stay was too much for 
him. It may have been, too, that he cher¬ 
ished a hope of obtaining eventually the in¬ 
strument for himself, either by barter or gift. 
At any rate, he set up a loud clamor for the 
restoration of Brad’s property. 

At once the other Frenchmen caught it up. 

“ De redskeen steal Brrrad’s mouth mu- 
seec! Make heem to geeve eet back, M’sieu 
Bent, M’sieu Carrrson! ” 

One impulsive soul darted forward and 
thrust his hand into the blanket of the Indian 
who had stood nearest to Brad. He gave a 


228 


LUCKY SHOT 


yell of triumph as his fingers encountered the 
missing harmonica. 

The chief scowled and muttered in his own 
tongue, and the bland suavity of the other 
visitors gave way to displeased frowns. 

“ Give it back to him, Brad, give it back,” 
Bent counseled hurriedly. “ We don’t want 
to undo all the good that’s been accomplished 
here to-day.” 

Brad was on the point of obeying, the 
hunters were voicing their discontent in no 
uncertain terms when Carson as usual saved 
the day. 

He explained in his usual impartial blend 
of dialect which seemed to be universally un¬ 
derstood among the Indians that the young 
white brother of the Indians would be de¬ 
lighted to give to the great chief the trifle 
which had caught his fancy. But, explained 
Kit impressively, it was a medicine music, 
and would respond only to the owner. He 
illustrated this by taking the harmonica from 
Brad and placing it to his own lips. As he 
did not blow, naturally there was no sound in 


LUCKY SHOT 


229 


response. He passed it on to Bent who 
quick-wittedly followed his example. Then 
Carson invited the chief to test its powers for 
himself. 

Brad restrained a grin as he saw the 
painted mouth of the chief laid to the keys of 
the instrument and heard the resulting si¬ 
lence. The redskin dropped his ill-gotten 
possession sullenly. Medicine which was 
good medicine for the white man was often 
very bad medicine for the red, as he knew 
from sorrowful experience. 

“ Now show him that you can play it, 
Brad,” Carson suggested. 

Brad picked it up, wiped it surreptitiously 
on his coat and setting it to his lips, blew 
“ Taps!” 

The Indians at once recognized the strains 
with which they had grown familiar during 
their stay outside the Fort. Awed, they 
flung palms outward and downward in cere¬ 
monial greeting of the tiny object which 
could imitate so accurately the soldier’s bugle. 

When they had finally withdrawn from the 


230 


LUCKY SHOT 


Fort and made their way across the grassy 
space to their own fires, it was felt by all 
within the adobe walls that the effect of the 
incident of the harmonica had been vastly in¬ 
creased by that final scene. 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 

44 Brad,” said Ned Hundley, 44 remember 
that I promised you a trip to Nero Hill? ” 

44 Do I remember! ” his nephew shouted. 
44 I’ve been so afraid you were going to for¬ 
get-” 

Ned was amused. 44 You could have re¬ 
minded me! I’ve never noticed that you suf¬ 
fer from an impediment in your speech.” 

The boy grinned a little sheepishly. His 
ready tongue had wagged rather freely, he 
feared, in the company of the hunters and 
trappers. The mountaineers, hungry for 
news of civilization, though not for anything 
would they return to so tame a life, were for¬ 
ever plying Brad with questions. Which 
was the better market for pelts, Independ¬ 
ence or St. Joseph? How much did prime 
beaver skin bring? What was this talk of a 


231 



232 LUCKY SHOT 

rifle which would shoot twice or even three 
times without re-loading? Was it true that 
mules were almost entirely replacing oxen in 
Missouri? 

Nothing loath, the boy, feeling himself to 
be a true cosmopolite because he came from a 
town which numbered five hundred inhabi¬ 
tants and had stayed a week in St. Louis be¬ 
sides, did ample justice to the facts he had and 
supplied any gaps in them by description, 
speculation and prophecy of his own. When 
he wasn’t talking, Ned declared, he was play¬ 
ing his harmonica. In any case, he kept his 
lips and tongue at work. 

Brad swept the conversation back to its 
starting point. 

“ Are we going to take that trip, Ned? 
Honestly? ” 

“ Why not? ” 

“ I thought—with the wagons being 
packed for the eastern trip—everybody so 
busy and all—Bent says you are going with 
that train-” 

“ Only I? ” Ned questioned significantly. 






LUCKY SHOT 


233 


“ How about a certain young fellow, five feet 
ten in his stocking feet, weighing something 
around a hundred and fifty-three 
pounds-” 

“ Ned! ” There was genuine dismay in 
his voice. “ Am I—you don’t mean to say— 
why, I never once thought-” 

“ Back your horses and start over,” was 
the kindly advice. “ Are you going back 
with me, do you mean? Yes, old-timer, you 
are! Say, kid, what did you expect? That 
you were going to spend the rest of your life 
down here? ” 

“ I—I reckon I hadn’t thought,” Brad 
faltered. “ I’ve had such a rousing good 
time down here—it’s all been so different and 
—and interesting-” 

“ Well, well! ” Hundley rose briskly and 
clapped his nephew on the shoulder. 
“ We’re not gone yet. And there’s a good 
deal to see and do before the train pulls out.” 

“ You said a year-” The boy still 

dwelt on the idea of leaving the Fort. “ It’s 
only May now.” 









234 


LUCKY SHOT 


“ And we leave the second week in June. 
It’s an unusually long and heavily loaded 
train, and by the time we stop along the way 
to collect the pelts that are waiting for us in 
Indian villages along the trail, it will be Sep¬ 
tember before we reach Independence. It 
won’t lack much of a year by the time you are 
back in St. Joseph.” Then seeing that 
Brad’s face still wore its look of consterna¬ 
tion, he strove to lead the boy’s thoughts else¬ 
where. “ About our trip now. Wouldn’t 
you like to go to Nero Hill? ” 

“ Where is it? ” Brad’s tone was not 
greatly interested. He was trying to realize 
that soon—in two weeks, in fact—he would 
be on his way back to Missouri and his glori¬ 
ous holiday would be over. 

“ It’s between Bob Creek and Horse Creek 
—north and west of here. We’ll follow the 
Arkansas River to the mouth of Bob Creek 
and then strike north. Nero Hill is not hierh 

o 

—not a real mountain, as it’s only about 4,600 
feet, but the plains at its foot are rich in relics 
of those people I told you about.” 





LUCKY SHOT 


235 


Despite himself, Brad Hundley bright¬ 
ened. Since that first inspection of his 
uncle’s queer collection, he had examined the 
objects over and over again and a great long¬ 
ing to find for himself some evidence of a race 
that had vanished a thousand years ago pos¬ 
sessed him. 

“ When do we start? ” he asked eagerly. 

Ned laughed. “ That stirs you up, does 
it? We start to-morrow at sunup, young 
fellow. That suit you all right? ” 

“ Just you and I ? ” Brad’s eagerness was 
growing. 

“ Nobody else. This isn’t a hunting trip, 
and we’ll be gone only ten days in all. Cant 
be gone any longer if I’m to take charge of 
the wagon train. We’ll take a couple of 
pack horses along with food for the trip there 
and room to bring back whatever you happen 
to find. I’ve told Bill Bent about it, and he 
thinks it’s a good thing—educational for you, 
you know.” He grinned derisively at Brad, 
remembering his brother’s remark that the 
year at the Fort would afford educational ad- 



236 


LUCKY SHOT 


vantages to the boy. “ Bound to do my duty 
by you, you know.” 

Brad grinned back. Neither he nor his 
young uncle realized how educational in the 
truest and broadest sense of the word, these 
months had been. Brad, his eager mind al¬ 
ready beginning to outgrow the narrow con¬ 
fines of the little village which was his home, 
had kept his eyes and ears open during his 
months at the Fort, and had accumulated not 
only much knowledge of trapping and hunt¬ 
ing, much wisdom as to the value of pelts and 
hides, but an ability to judge human nature, 
a resourcefulness, a knowledge of how to look 
after himself which was all his life long to 
stand him in good stead. 

“ Scoot and pack your saddlebags,” Ned 
commanded. “ We’ll turn in early to-night 
and be well on our way by sunrise.” 

They were four days making the journey. 
There was no trail, but they made good time 
as the pack ponies were not heavily laden and 
no storms delayed them. They went through 
wooded country along the Arkansas River, 


LUCKY SHOT 


237 


but when they turned north at the mouth of 
Bob Creek, the land grew barren and water 
holes had to be taken into consideration. 

On the evening of the fourth day, Ned 
reined in his horse by a spring which was shel¬ 
tered by a group of cottonwoods. 

“ This will be our base of operations,” he 
announced. “ We’ll sleep here to-night, and 
to-morrow I’ll show you where Ceran St. 
Vrain and I once came upon the burial places. 
I don’t suppose any one has visited them 
since we were there.” 

Brad could hardly sleep that night for ex¬ 
citement. The blood of the born archeolo¬ 
gist coursed through his veins, and the pros¬ 
pect of uncovering revelations of the past 
thrilled him through and through. He was 
up and had the fire burning briskly and the 
coffee made before Ned had stirred yawn- 
ingly in his blankets. 

To the boy’s surprise, much of their equip¬ 
ment was left at the camp, securely fastened 
to the limbs of the trees out of reach of 
coyotes. 


238 


LUCKY SHOT 


“ Suppose some Indians came along and 
stole it,” he protested. 

“No Indians come here,” was the confi¬ 
dent reply. “ They are scared to death of 
the place. They believe that the spirits of 
those long-buried people hover over the spot 
and that to go near it is bad luck.” 

“ Weren’t they Indians themselves—the 
folks buried here? ” 

“ Nobody knows—at least I don’t,” Ned 
amended honestly. “ The scientific chap I 
wrote to in Washington sent a long report, 
full of five-syllabled words, claiming that 
they were Flatheads—Indians that bound 
their children’s heads to a board to make ’em 
flat. Maybe so—but I’ve found a good 
many skulls that weren’t distorted.” 

Brad shivered delightedly. “ Skulls? ” 

“ Certainly—skulls. Don’t you realize 
it’s a graveyard we’re going to? I figure 
that once this land was stiff clay like around 
the Fort; then the sand blew across the desert 
and covered it up, and it was hidden for hun¬ 
dreds of years—a thousand, maybe, like the 







LUCKY SHOT 


239 


Washington man said. Then the wind 
changed its course—blew from the other di¬ 
rection for a while, and the sand was swept 
off and the graves exposed.” 

“ Is it right-” Brad hesitated, his 

strong desire to investigate what was to come 
warring with his scruples. “ Is it right for 
us to dig up those skeletons? ” 

“ You won’t have to do much digging,” 
Ned told him dryly. “ St. Vrain and I 
could hardly keep our horses from stepping 
on the bones that lay in our path. And I 
reckon by this time the folks that were buried 
there aren’t caring very much what happens 
to their bones. Maybe they’d prefer to have 
’em sent East so that the world could know 
that they once lived, than to let ’em be en¬ 
tirely forgotten. Whatever adds to our 
knowledge of the human race is helpful to us, 
I suppose. Now, Brad, keep your eyes 
peeled. It’s just about here that Ceran and 

I-” He broke off to point downward 

and Brad was off his horse in an instant. 
There at his feet lay a grinning skull, its eye- 




240 LUCKY SHOT 

sockets seeming to scan the sky for a sight of 
the sun. 

“ An old man,” Ned said, taking it from 
him. 

“ How can you tell? ” 

“ That it’s a man, by its shape. The space 
between here and here— ” he put a thumb 
and finger from the temple to the top of the 
head—“ is too long to be a woman. I know 
he’s old, because his teeth are worn down al¬ 
most to the jaw-bones. The old fellow suf¬ 
fered from toothache, too—look at this 
broken and hollow one! Want to keep this 
skull, Brad? ” 

Brad replied by dropping the object, not 
without respect, into his saddlebags. 

All day the two roamed back and forth 
along the sandy area and almost every hour 
Brad came upon something of interest to him. 
Now it was a pottery bowl whose beautiful 
markings made him wonder at the artistic 
skill of its maker; now it was one of the bone 
implements which had interested him so much 
in Ned’s room at the Fort; now it was a tall 







mm mm* 




W»M>f b 
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There At His Feet Lay A Grinning Skull,— Page 239 


























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LUCKY SHOT 


241 


jar at the bottom of which he discovered a 
handful of grain, so dried and darkened by 
age that it was impossible to tell the nature 
of it. 

The Colorado sky was clear and lovely 
above them. Fresh little breezes came down 
from the distant mountains. Here and there 
in the desert bloomed gay little flowers, their 
roots in the dust of a people once as active as 
any, but long since forgotten. 

The two men, for Brad’s mental and physi¬ 
cal growth deserved the name of man, were 
as much alone as though they were at the 
ends of the earth; and indeed, Ned thought, 
looking about him with a little shiver, that 
fabled place must greatly resemble the spot 
on which they stood: barren, treeless, and 
waterless, and strewn about with the bones 
and skulls of hundreds who had drawn their 
last breath before the white man had ever 
been seen in America. 

Just at sunset he summoned Brad who had 
roamed to a little distance. 

Something in the tone of Ned’s voice, ex~ 


242 


LUCKY SHOT 


cited yet touched with awe, brought the boy 
hurrying quickly to his side. 

“ Look at this, Brad,” Ned Hundley said 
softly. He pointed, and they stood silently 
gazing at what Ned had found. 

The freakish wind had uncovered the side 
of a sand dune, almost as though to open a 
door on the little room which had been hid¬ 
den within. Lying as peacefully in this tiny 
chamber as though she were in her own carved 
ivory bed within her home in the cliffs, was 
the half-mummied body of a woman. Her 
head and shoulders emerged from a shroud¬ 
ing robe, as soft to the touch as eiderdown. 

“ It’s a feather robe,” Brad said, still in 
that lowered voice as though remembering he 
spoke in the presence of the dead. “ She 
must have been a princess, as only royalty 
was buried in those marvelous robes. This 
is an unusually fine specimen.” 

Brad leaned over to examine it more 
closely. “ It looks like soft fur rather than 
feathers. But the color is so queer! ” 

“ It’s made of both feathers and fur; fur 


LUCKY SHOT 


243 


from rabbits, feathers from the breasts of 
birds. Both are woven into a foundation of 
braided yucca leaves. See what a delicate 
piece of work this is, Brad! It’s gray from 
the sand and the weather, but I suppose when 
it was new it was white—with here and there 
the delicate blue or rose of a bird’s breast 
feathers.” 

“ It must have been beautiful,” Brad said 
soberly. “ Xed, look at her hair! It’s long 
and soft and silky—not like the coarse black 
hair of the squaws.” 

They bent forward, looking in silence at 
the remnants of a woman’s beauty which had 
persisted throughout the centuries. As Brad 
had said, the long black hair which streamed 
about the shoulders and far down over the 
robe was silkily soft and fine. The flesh 
had dried down upon the bones which were 
so delicate in skeletal structure that the effect 
was not gruesome, almost rather that of 
beauty. 

The teeth were neither clenched nor gaping 
as had been the case with the other skulls they 




244 


LUCKY SHOT 


had seen. They were slightly parted, as 
though the girl’s last thoughts had been 
happy ones.* 

“ See how white and even they are,” Brad 
whispered. “ Perfect teeth, pearly and 
beautiful after all these years.” 

The opening in the burial mound faced the 
west and the splendor of the setting sun 
bathed the princess in a rosy glow. How 
many suns, Brad wondered, had shone upon 
that mound since she was placed there? 

Centuries before Columbus took leave of 
his Spanish king and queen to set out on his 
voyage of discovery, this black-haired girl 
had been taking her rest. The Pilgrim 
Fathers had landed to bring the white man’s 
customs and the white man’s standards to 
Indian lands. America had thrown off Eng¬ 
land’s yoke. Farther and farther into the 
desert had the adventurous trapper and 
hunter pushed his way until there came at 
last to stand before her partly uncovered 

* A woman’s skeleton similar to this is to be seen in the 
Historical Museum at Denver. 


LUCKY SHOT 245 

tomb a boy and a man from far-away Mis¬ 
souri. 

“ I suppose,” Ned said gravely, “ that we 
are the first to look on her since they placed 
her there, weeping and wailing and gashing 
their arms with sharp flints to express their 
sorrow—a thousand years ago.” 

A thousand years ago! 

The glamorous phrase kept repeating it¬ 
self in Brad’s mind. Everything about 
them spoke of endless time: the rocks, the 
sands, the distant mountains, the stream back 
at the cottonwoods that rushed hurriedly to 
overtake the river. Yet time was not end¬ 
less, nor was anything permanent. Brad 
thought. The clay in which the princess had 
been buried had been covered by sand and 
uncovered again. The mountains were be¬ 
ing gradually worn down by the relentless 
whips of snow and rain and wind. The 
stream—who knew how long it had followed 
that course, how soon it would leave its shal¬ 
low bed? 

“ A thousand years in Thy sight are as but 


246 


LUCKY SHOT 


a day.” The echoes of a traveling preacher’s 
voice came back to Brad, bringing home to 
him, as never before had he realized in his 
heedless young life, the age of the whirling 
ball on which he lived and called it home. 

Ned stood quietly, his own thoughts busy 
with this glimpse of eternity; unwilling to 
disturb the boy, knowing that his mental 
horizon was widening with every thought 
which came to him. 

Perhaps it was to test this mental growth 
of Brad’s that Ned said to him after a while: 

“ Well, boy, that’s a pretty important find, 
isn’t it? Shall we come back in the morning 
and remove the princess? We can load her 
quite easily onto one of the ponies. I im¬ 
agine those scientists in Washington would 
be willing to pay us a considerable sum for 
her.” 

The face Brad turned upon him was 
shocked and angry. 

“ Ned Hundley, I wouldn’t think of such 
a thing! I’m surprised you’d even suggest 
it. Why—why—that’s her grave she’s in— 



LUCKY SHOT 


247 


don’t you realize it? That feather robe is 
really her shroud. Nothing would make me 
take the poor pretty thing away from where 
her folks put her when she died, and cart her 
around the country on a horse! ” 

“ Glad you feel like that, Brad,” was the 
answer. u I do myself. I just wanted to 
know how the idea struck you. Suppose we 
take our shovels and see what we can do to¬ 
ward making her resting-place safe again— 
safe from human eyes and from the sun and 

• >5 

rain. 

They worked in silence, uncle and nephew; 
worked until the sun was nearly gone and the 
sudden dark threatened. They had some 
difficulty in finding their way back to their 
camp, but when they reached it, they were 
satisfied with the knowledge that for the time 
being at least, the black hair and pearly teeth 
of the princess were once more sealed in royal 
privacy. 



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 


They returned to find the F ort in a bustle 
of activity. The train was scheduled to start 
in three days, and all was confusion and hurry 
within the adobe walls. 

“ Time you were showing up here, young 
man! ” Bent accosted Brad. “ What in the 
name of reason have you got packed in those 
saddlebags? ” 

Brad proudly exhibited his collection of 
primitive weapons and utensils, of bones and 
shells and tiny clay figures. 

Good-naturedly the residents of the Fort 
dove into their stores and brought forth vari¬ 
ous treasures to add to it. 

The richness of these contributions amazed 
and delighted Brad. Hardly a hunter or 
trapper but had picked up at various times 
objects which would have sent historian or 


248 


LUCKY SHOT 


249 


archeologist into spasms of delight. Teeth 
of prehistoric animals found on far-away 
glaciers, bones of birds unknown to modern 
man, petrified lizards and frogs, specimens 
of mineral ore and uncut and unpolished 
jewels, relics of a world long forgotten, found 
their way into the great boxes Bent kindly 
allowed the boy to pack for the wagon train. 

“ Good thing you’re not paying your pass¬ 
age by the pound,” Ned grinned as he helped 
Brad carry down these heavy chests. “ Get 
everything in as soon as you can, old-timer. 
We’re nearly ready to start.” 

As the hour of departure drew nearer, the 
activity within the Fort increased to feverish 
heat. All day long the blacksmith’s ham¬ 
mer rang, putting iron rims on wheels, hoops 
on casks and kegs, forging bars for the 
wagons, bits for new bridles. The carpenter 
and his assistants were making last-minute 
repairs to wagon bows and beds. 

In the wagon-sheds, wheels were being 
wrenched off, thoroughly oiled, and put back 
again. The tar-bucket was in constant use. 


250 


LUCKY SHOT 


Out in the corral, the oxen and mules were 
being inspected for sore feet or galled shoul¬ 
ders. 

Brad was constantly in the way of the busy 
men, so interested was he in what was going 
on in every part of the Fort. 

“ Why are we taking so much food? ” he 
demanded of Ned. “ We can’t possibly eat 
it all, even if we’re four months on the way.” 

“ To trade with the Indians for skins,” the 
other answered briefly, his eyes on the list he 
was checking. 

Dried buffalo meat, bacon, sugar in small 
kegs, tobacco, coffee, and a limited supply of 
whiskey were being stowed beneath the covers 
of the big Murphy wagons. Other things 
went in which Brad correctly surmised were 
also to be used in trade: small mirrors, calico 
in gaudy colors, glass beads, fofurraw of all 
kinds. 

The hide-press was in use all the time, 
pressing into bales pelts which had come in at 
the last moment. 

“ Blamed Injuns start looking up their 


LUCKY SHOT 


251 


winter’s catch when they see the wagons 
brought out,” grumbled the clerk, whose 
duties were increased a hundredfold by these 
belated contributions. 

Bent went carefully over his stock, select¬ 
ing all he could spare until the shelves were 
replenished by the returning train. Men 
who had reduced the task of packing a wagon 
—and it is a task far more difficult than can 
be imagined—to a fine art were too busy to 
look up from what they were doing. 

Children toddled about underfoot, now 
and then getting a bare toe stepped on and 
adding their cries to the general uproar. 
The squaws hung around, their perpetual 
curiosity never satisfied, though the depar¬ 
ture of the wagons was a yearly event. . . . 
And all day long, from the time the gates 
were opened in the morning until sunset 
barred them at night, the Indians streamed 
in. 

They came to bring skins, held back until 
the final hour in hope of a better trade than 
had been offered them in the winter. They 




252 


LUCKY SHOT 


came to beg odds and ends of the goods 
the packers handled. Above all, they came 
to interview Ned Hundley, in charge of the 
train, and sent through him messages to their 
relatives in the villages through which the 
wagons would pass. 

Brad marveled at the patience with which 
Ned listened to these messages. 

“ You can’t remember half of them, let 
alone finding the Indians they are sent to,” 
he protested. “ Why do you bother with 
them at all when you are so busy? ” 

“I’m never too busy to neglect important 
things, Brad. And anything that helps to 
keep our kindly relations with the Indians— 
especially those Indians along the trail who 
can protect or molest the train as it passes— 
is the most important job I have on hand.” 

“ But how can you keep from getting 
mixed up on what they tell you? ” 

“ It isn’t so difficult as you might think. 
I know most of the chiefs to whom these mes¬ 
sages are sent. I see them twice a year, com¬ 
ing and going, you know. And they aren’t 




LUCKY SHOT 


253 


personal messages—like telling Cousin Sam 
back home that Pete Hardy of Weston wants 
to borrow his bear-trap next time he comes up 
that way, or asking Melissa Jones to save her 
pink quilt scraps to swap for Nance Dolin’s 
blue ones at fair time. These are important 
dispatches of a political nature forwarded 
through that peerless diplomat, Edward 
Stone Hundley! ” The owner of that name 
threw out his chest and grinned at Brad. 

“ What sort of dispatches? Tell me! ” 

“ Can’t. It would be against all the rules 
of diplomacy,” the other declared. 44 But 
I’ll tell you what Blue Horse of the South 
Cheyennes at Big Timbers wishes me to say 
to Laughing Cow of the Utes at Yellow Pine 
camp near Bushing River. 4 He is sorry 
that he took away the squaw of his brother, 
Laughing Cow, and he will return her if the 
Utes will send somebody here to the Fort 
after her.’ ” 

44 You mean Blue Horse stole her? ” 

44 Sure he stole her! The Utes and the 
Cheyennes were having a temporary—differ- 



254 


LUCKY SHOT 


ence of opinion, shall we call it? and Blue 
Horse burned Laughing Cow’s tepee, drove 
off his horses and made off with his wife. 
Now he’s had enough of her—she keeps his 
lodge in an uproar all the time, he says, no 
matter how often he beats her—and anyway, 
now the Utes and Cheyennes are at peace, 
and he would give back to Laughing Cow 
what he stole.” 

“ The horses, too? ” 

“ Well, no. Blue Horse didn’t mention 
those. I suppose they haven’t objected to 
changing their tribe as strenuously as the 
squaw has.” 

“ Will Laughing Cow take her back? ” 

“ Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on how 
valuable she was to him. If she was a good 
beaver-skin dresser, or handy at beadwork 
and pottery-making, he’ll probably be glad 
to recover her. If she wasn’t—well, it’ll 
just mean Bill Bent has one more Ute squaw 
on his hands to support, that’s all.” 

Bim Black came up with a grim smile on 
his face. 



LUCKY SHOT 


2 55 


“ Say, Brad, thar’s a ’Rapahoe buck down¬ 
stairs that ’lows he’ll trade his horse for 
yourn. Says he must have something extra 
’cause his is the better animal, but he’ll treat 
you fair, bein’ as you’re kin to Ned here.” 

“ Trade Greased Lightning? ” Brad was 
aghast. “ I think I see myself. You go 
tell him-” 

“ Come on and have a look-see at what lie’s 
offerin’ you,” Bim urged. “ You may 
change your mind after that.” 

Muttering that it was not likely, but will¬ 
ing to inspect a horse which was so fine it 
rivalled Greased Lightning, Brad went down 
to the corral, Bim after him. Near one of 
the snubbing-posts an Indian stood, the 
frayed rope halter of a bay horse in his hand. 

“ Thar it air,” said Bim. “ Fine animile, 
ain’t it? O’ course, it’s sort o’ knock-kneed, 
an’ its wind hev been broken, an’ suthin’ or 
ruther seems to have happened to one of its 
eyes. And it’s a little sway-back, and I sus¬ 
picion that cough ain’t so promisin’. But 
outside of that, it’s a danged fine animile, 



256 


LUCKY SHOT 


Brad, an’ yore shorely lucky to trade yore 
Lightning for him.” 

“ That—that broken-down wreck? ” Brad 
gasped. “ That heap of soap grease ? That 
rack of bones that’s barely moving around on 
its feet? Trade Lightning for that? ” He 
fairly spluttered with rage. “ Bim, you tell 
that ’Rapahoe-” 

“ Shet up, Brad,” admonished the old man 
in high enjoyment. “ He’s going to do the 
talkin’ hisself.” 

The Arapahoe drew himself up to his full 
height, pointed to the horse, and burst into a 
long and impassioned speech. Translated 
by the chuckling Bim, it meant that Three 
Feathers, the owner of this fine stallion, out 
of love for the whites and a desire to prove his 
generosity, would exchange the magnificent 
animal for the speedless, weak and diseased 
mount on which Brad must make his precari¬ 
ous way back to Missouri unless Three 
Feathers’ charity was accepted. It was un¬ 
derstood, of course, by his white brother, that 
Three Feathers must be compensated in some 




LUCKY SHOT 


257 


measure for his unparalleled kindness. A 
trifle of gunpowder now, say three measures 
of the cup used by the agent, and much 
“ chaws,” and some sugar, and any odds and 
ends of fofurraw Brad could command. 

The “ trade ” had attracted the attention 
of the loungers about the corral. They 
crowded around Brad, enjoying his fury at 
what he considered an insult to his beloved 
horse. 

The dark face of the Arapahoe gave no 
sign that he realized the preposterousness of 
his offer. He continued to urge the spavined 
sorrel upon Brad until in disgust the boy 
turned on his heel and walked away. At 
the gate which led back to the court, he 
turned, to surprise the Indian doubled over 
in a fit of silent laughter. The sight did not 
increase Brad’s good nature. 

On the evening before the train started 
Carson rode in, bringing with him his tiny 
daughter Adelaide. It was the first knowl¬ 
edge Brad had had of the existence of the 
little girl. 


258 


LUCKY SHOT 


“ Was her mother an Indian? ” he asked 
Ned curiously. 

“ Yes. ‘ Alice/ Kit always called her. 
He seldom speaks of her, but I believe they 
were very happy together. He’s taking 
Adelaide to Missouri to have her educated by 
the whites. Poor Kit! She’s the only fam¬ 
ily he has, and I know it’s hard for him to 
part with her.” 

Brad managed to get a word alone with the 
scout. 

“ How’s Blue? I kind of hoped he might 
be going with us to Independence.” 

Carson shook his head, his eyes twinkling. 

“ I told him he might, but he sort of figures 
Missouri ain’t so healthy for him right now. 
He run away, you know, same as I did, 
twelve years ago. I reckon that’s what gives 
me sort of a liking for the boy. Anyways, 
he’s going to stay at Taos till I get back, and 
then we’ll go out on the fall hunt together.” 

It gave Brad a pang to think of those two, 
Carson and Blue, friends already despite the 
disparity of their ages, spending long weeks 


LUCKY SHOT 


259 


in the pursuit of game while he, Brad, went 
about his peaceful and unexciting tasks at 
home. It put a sharper edge on the grief he 
felt at leaving the Fort. 

The next morning he was startled to see, 
gathered outside the walls, a hundred or more 
braves in full regalia, sitting on their horses 
like bronze statues, evidently waiting for the 
train to start. 

“ What are they doing there? ” he ques¬ 
tioned Bent. 

“ They’re going with you—part of the 
way, that is. It gives them tremendous pres¬ 
tige with the tribes they visit to arrive in a 
wagon train. I’m sorry there are so many 
this time, though. That means Ned will be 
a long time on the way. Each party of 
visitors will be greeted with a dance and a 
feast, and Ned will not dare leave until he’s 
spent at least a day and a night in the village. 
He’ll know what’s best.” 

“ They add a lot to the looks of the train, 
though,” Brad said boyishly. “ Look at the 
sun glitter on their lances and on all that 



260 LUCKY SHOT 

beadwork and shell ornaments and stuff on 
their clothes! ” 

Bent nodded and smiled. Perhaps he, 
too, thought the magnificently arrayed red¬ 
skins mounted on horses whose sides shone 
from recent rubbing added to the impressive¬ 
ness of the long caravan. 

“ Well, Brad,” he said, taking the boy’s 
hand in a hearty grasp, “ have you en¬ 
joyed your stay at Bent’s Fort? Are you 
sorry that unlucky shot of yours at Man Haw 
Ka’s elk sent you all the way down here to 
visit my ’dobe fortress on the plains? ” 

Brad Hundley leaned forward for a last 

look at the place which had sheltered him for 

* 

so many months. The roofs were bright with 
cactus bloom, some of them sown by the wind, 
some planted to keep intruders from crawl¬ 
ing across the roofs. The whiteness of the 
walls almost blinded his eyes in the June sun. 
Along the battlements the patrols walked, 
stopping now and then to give a military sa¬ 
lute to some one below. 

Bim Black stood just within the gates, his 


LUCKY SHOT 


261 


mutilated hand held up in friendly farewell 
to Brad. The Arapahoe buck who yester¬ 
day had vainly tried to trade his horse for 
Greased Lightning grinned amicably. 

Through the open gates a motley array 
crowded: Mexicans, Indians, traders, dapper 
Frenchmen, uncouth mountaineers. 

The shrill voice of Charlotte could be heard 
in perpetual admonishment of Andrew 
Green. 

“ Yo’, Andy! Whut yo’ done done wid ma 
gre’t iron stir-spoon? The onlee gre’t stir- 
spoon I got? Git it now, dam quick! Yo’ 
hear me! ” 

Rosalie, the half-breed, lounged lazily 
against the wall, her white teeth flashing in 
her dark face as she exchanged a final pleas¬ 
antry with one of the drivers, regardless of 
her husband’s dark frown. 

Out on the plain stood the wagons, four 
abreast, the line in front curving out of sight. 
Into one of them Carson was carefully put¬ 
ting his small half-breed daughter, Adelaide. 
Brad was glad that he would be for four 


262 


LUCKY SHOT 


months in the company of this quiet-spoken, 
fearless, and powerful Indian scout. 

He became aware that William Bent still 
awaited the answer to his question. Brad 
looked gratefully into the dark eyes on a level 
with his own. 

“ It wasn’t an unlucky shot, sir! It was 
the luckiest I ever made, because it has given 
me the happiest and most interesting year of 
my life!” 


THE END 





















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UBRAKY of CONGRESS 


0 0 0 2 4 7 i 14 3 ^ ^ 




